Wings of a Butterfly
by Traxits
Summary: When Bonnie's new teleport spell backfires, Jeremy wakes on the front lines in 1863, alongside a human Damon Salvatore. Getting back to Mystic Falls is only the first hurdle he must face as he struggles not to change the past.
1. Crashing

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: (eventual) Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Mature for graphic descriptions of violence.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Graphic description of violence, wounds, American Civil War era battles.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 2900 words.  
**Summary**: A spell gone wrong, and Jeremy finds himself trapped in 1863, on the front lines with a human Damon Salvatore.  
**Author's Notes**: My first multi-chaptered fic in the Vampire Diaries fandom, so wish me luck! As always, reviews are much appreciated. Right now, it looks like it will fall between eight and ten chapters.

**[[ … Chapter One: Crashing … ]]**

The room was quiet except for the sound of pages turning. Bonnie was stretched out on Jeremy's bed, waiting for Elena to get home. Jeremy had perched on the edge of the bed, and he was glancing at the book Bonnie looked through.

"Oh, what's this one?" Jeremy poked at one of the pages on the book, and he ignored Bonnie's glare as she lightly dusted the page off.

"It looks like some kind of... transportation spell?" She tilted her head, leaned a little closer to the book, and then nodded. "Yeah."

Jeremy sat up a little straighter, looking at her curiously. "That sounds useful."

"What?" Bonnie lifted her head from the book, a frown on her face. "How? I could just move whatever I needed. I don't have to _teleport_ it."

"You're so unimaginative! Like, we could use that to bait traps and such, Bonnie!" Jeremy grinned. "Could you imagine? Setting a trap for ... say a vampire," easiest example to give where Bonnie was concerned. "What if they were looking for Elena? She could stand somewhere and just before they reached her, you could just poof her to... wherever else."

Bonnie bit her bottom lip.

"Or we could just rely on Damon to move Elena in time." Jeremy shrugged. "No difference to me."

She shot him a look, sighing loudly. "Fine. I can practice on that one."

"Well, if you're going to use it for moving people, you should practice moving people." Jeremy stood up and offered her a grin. "Teleport me."

"What? I'm not teleporting you. It's _dangerous_, Jeremy."

"It has to be me, Bonnie." Jeremy frowned at her, folding his arms over his chest. She was still looking down in the book, and she tapped her finger over the page. He leaned against the edge of his desk, arching an eyebrow. "Would you rather try it with Elena?"

"Well, no." Bonnie fidgeted a little more, sighing. "I don't want to try it at all. And why does it have to be you?" She picked the book up, pulled it into her lap, and glanced up at him.

He lifted one of his hands, arching an eyebrow. "Ring? Protection against death by anything supernatural?" He laughed lightly. "I figure that getting torn apart by a practicing witch counts as supernatural."

Bonnie's face went pale, and Jeremy quickly held up his hands. "Not that I think I'll get torn apart!" He hesitated, then reached back and rubbed the back of his neck. "C'mon, Bonnie. It'll be easy. Just... magic me around the room." He nodded, and when Bonnie finally nodded slowly too, he smiled. "See? It's not gonna be hard. And just think! You'll be more useful than Damon if we end up needing this."

That brought a small smile to her face as well, and she shook out her hands, breathing in deeply. "Okay. I can do this."

"Super witch!"

She laughed, although Jeremy thought it might sound marginally hysterical. Pushing her was probably not his brightest idea. He rolled his head, popping his neck, and nodded. "Okay, Bonnie. Ready when you are."

She closed her eyes, and Jeremy watched as she held out her hands. They were trembling. He licked his bottom lip, and she started chanting quietly to herself, just under her breath. He couldn't understand her, but it didn't matter; he never had been able to anyway.

The world shifted the moment that she started speaking, and Jeremy blinked rapidly in an attempt to bring it back into focus. It didn't work, because instead of sharpening, everything seemed to only separate further. It was like watching a 3D movie with no glasses, all the outlines and ghost images, and then a pain shot through his forehead.

It was like taking a punch to the face, and Jeremy actually fell back, reaching up blindly. When he could open his eyes again, he saw himself still standing where he had started, only that Jeremy was holding out his hands, and Bonnie— no, two Bonnies. There were two of them sitting on the bed, one still chanting, the other pointing and clearly talking or arguing or something with someone.

Jeremy rubbed his head, pushed himself up, and immediately scrabbled back as he saw that his foot was beginning to dip _through_ the floor. Another dizzying jerk, and he rolled over onto his knees. He could taste a sharp burn in the back of his throat. He locked his jaw, squeezed his eyes closed, and he tried to push himself up to his feet; he needed to get to the bathroom. He was going to be sick. He managed exactly one step before the world jerked again, and when he fell, something brushed against his face.

He didn't care right away, because his stomach clenched and rolled and then he was coughing, spitting out the last of the bile still in his mouth. The sickly sweet smell of the vomit almost made him lose it again, but then he fell back, reaching up an arm to cover his eyes.

He wasn't sure when the room had gotten so bright.

Jeremy had no idea how long he laid there, but he did until the fireworks started. He sat up slowly, his head spinning, and he pushed himself on up to his unsteady legs. He was standing in the middle of a cluster of trees, and he leaned against one. He was breathing hard; he felt like he'd run miles. Screaming and shouting started from somewhere ahead, and he froze, looking up.

He forced himself to focus, to _listen_, and realized with a slowly growing horror that it probably wasn't fireworks, unless something had gone terribly wrong. One foot in front of the other, and Jeremy clung to the tree, unable to make himself let go. He was going to crash to the ground if he tried.

A slight breeze brought with it the smell of gunpowder, of something sharp that Jeremy wasn't sure he recognized. It brought with it smoke— Jeremy coughed— and then someone burst through the trees just ahead and fell, clutching at his chest, screaming and sobbing and making this _gurgling_ noise. Jeremy rushed forward, lurching from tree to tree until he sank to the ground just beside the man.

Blood poured across the man's chest, and Jeremy pushed his hands onto it, trying to apply pressure— that was the rule, wasn't it? But the blood kept coming, and he kept making that awful noise, and then Jeremy jerked his hands back because suddenly the man was gone. One moment, he'd been breathing and gurgling and struggling and the next he was simply... a thing. A corpse.

Jeremy had no warning before his stomach rebelled once more, and he glanced between the spot that the man had fallen and the treeline. He could still hear gunfire— there was no doubt in his mind now that the sound _was_ gunfire— and when he looked back down, his eyes narrowed. A reenactment gone wrong? The man was wearing a confederate soldier's uniform, although it was far grittier than most of the costumes Jeremy had seen at the reenactments he'd been to. He knelt down, swallowed, and held his breath as he reached up just enough to turn up the man's collar.

No bars or chevrons; the guy had been a private.

Jeremy quickly pushed himself back, unable to stand touching the body for too long. He was shaking, and he made himself look again, really _look_ at the unfortunate soul in front of him. It was only then that he noticed the bag that the man had been clutching. He was a deserter; there was no other explanation for his lack of a weapon and the pack. Jeremy hesitated, but when the gunfire sounded a little closer to him, he reached for the bag and opened it.

It wasn't like the man could mind anymore.

He fought down the wave of nausea that accompanied _that_ thought and he pulled out a change of clothes, both plain clothes and another uniform— this one just as patched together as the one the man had been wearing. Another reach in the bag, and he pulled out a stack of letters. He took just long enough to open a few to check the date, and he fell back to sit on the cold ground.

_1863._

He had no idea how long he stayed like that, but between the way his stomach kept rolling and the slow realization that it was _freezing_, Jeremy felt like he couldn't move. He wanted to keep telling himself that it was a reenactment, that the actor had been keeping period things in his bag just for the kick of submitting so fully to the role. But there was something not right, and from all the screams, if it _had_ been a reenactment, it had gone wrong. Tragically so.

Finally, he shook himself, and Jeremy glanced at the clothes that he had pulled from the bag. He didn't hesitate further, just stripped off his own and changed. Rule one of survival— the only rule Alaric and Damon had both agreed on— was to look like you belonged. Everything else was secondary. He stretched and tugged on the clothes; they were just a little too short and a little too loose on his frame, and no amount of adjusting would make them fit properly.

His hands were still shaking as he shoved the letters and his own clothes back into the bag. He licked his lips and started toward the treeline. He stopped only long enough to reach out and close the deserter's eyes with trembling fingertips. Soon as he could, he wiped his fingers off on his shirt and struggled not to throw up again. It wasn't like he had anything else in his stomach. It would just hurt.

He stumbled out into a field, and he held up an arm to keep the sun out of his eyes. He hadn't taken the hat from the body. Jeremy stood still just long enough to locate the nearest group of soldiers, and then he dropped to his knees. He didn't think his stomach could take any more.

There were men everywhere, blood and screaming and shouting, and he could hear a bugle playing, drums tapping. He watched another wave of men being cut down by a volley of musket fire, and he gagged, incapable of stopping himself. Finally, he ducked down a little more, and he felt tears in his eyes, felt the sharp bitterness of simple _fear_ in his mouth.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and Jeremy jumped, scrabbling back and tilting his head up. A blond man crouched down in front of him, and he was looking at him intently. "You hit?"

Jeremy shook his head, and the man tugged him on up to his feet. They were running then, as best that Jeremy _could_ run, given the fact that his legs still felt as though they were going to fold under him. The guy pushed him almost face first into a narrow trench, sliding in right behind him. Immediately, someone shoved a musket into his hands, and Jeremy glanced up only briefly before he stared down at the weapon.

"Can you shoot?"

He hesitated, and then he nodded slowly. He had no idea who was asking him, and somehow, in the chaos of the shouting, a handful of paper cartridges ended up in his hands. He loaded the weapon and leaned up over the edge of the trench, risking a glance at the other side. Immediately, he swallowed, and then someone was shouting for him to fire, and so help him, he did.

He had no idea if he actually hit anyone, but somehow, he ended up shooting several more times, scarcely able to breathe each time he squeezed the trigger. By the time it was all over, a couple of the men in the trench with him clapped him on the shoulder, and he could hear them all congratulating one another. He wasn't sure why they were so pleased, when all he could see were the dead and blood, and he could _hear_ them dying.

Jeremy tucked himself into a ball, musket held close against him, staring at the wall of the trench. Someone leaned down beside him, touching his shoulder, and he looked up at them without really seeing them. Vaguely, he realized that the person was speaking, asking him something.

"Boy, you got family?"

He managed a jerky nod, not trusting his voice. The man smiled slowly at him, and all Jeremy could focus on was that mustache. It looked almost like a furry worm stretched out under his nose.

"Where are they?"

"M... Mystic Falls." He coughed, reaching up to wipe his mouth. His throat was tight, aching. Jeremy wasn't sure when that had started.

"Virginia?" The man looked at him a little more closely, and then he twisted around and called, "Get the lieutenant. He'll want to see this one." The call for the lieutenant was taken up and sent down the trench. Jeremy licked his bottom lip, pulling his legs a little closer to himself.

After a moment, there was a shuffling around, and someone new knelt down beside him. Jeremy didn't look up until he felt a hat being placed on top of his head. When he did, his mouth went dry, and his eyes widened.

Damon Salvatore, of all people, was crouched down, staring at him, offering him that same devil-may-care smile. But no, it wasn't the same smile, not quite. He looked less haunted. There wasn't that undertone of self-derision in the expression that Jeremy was so used to seeing.

"Hey, kid."

There was a chuckle among the men in the trench, presumably because _Damon_, who looked a good sight younger than most of the other men around them, was calling someone else a 'kid.' Jeremy managed a faint smile of his own.

"Mystic Falls, eh? I'm from there. Damon. Damon Salvatore."

Jeremy nodded slightly. "Jeremy Gilbert." He rubbed the side of his arm, feeling some of the hysteria slipping away. No matter how absolutely insane the entire situation was, it couldn't be completely terrible. Damon was still here, and there was really no one else that Jeremy would have preferred to have, given the circumstances.

"A Gilbert? You're related to Johnathan Gilbert?" Damon rocked back to put his weight on his heels, and he lightly flicked his hair from his eyes. It was then that Jeremy noticed the musket sitting across his lap, tucked between his body and the tops of his thighs. For one bizarre moment, Jeremy wanted to sketch it, wanted to capture him like that.

Jeremy licked his bottom lip instead, doing his best to commit the picture to memory, and he ducked his head. He scrabbled to think of Johnathan Gilbert's relations, and finally he said, "Cousin. I'm uh... I'm from Shreveport." He couldn't afford to do anything truly foolish such as trying to explain where he was actually from.

Damon was still human.

"Louisiana." Damon's grin widened. "We don't have too many of you boys up here. Listen, the men here were telling me that you did some pretty good shooting for us." He tilted his head, and Jeremy realized that he must still look panicked. Damon was trying to calm him, trying to settle him.

He bit his bottom lip.

"How old are you?"

Jeremy hesitated for only a second, but even as the word 'eighteen' fell off of his lips, he saw the men exchanging looks.

"Yeah." Damon nodded to himself, exchanging a look with the same guy who had pushed Jeremy into the trenches. Or, Jeremy thought it was the same guy. Everything was so jumbled up in his head— hell, he was still _shaking_— that he couldn't be sure. "Eighteen. Birthday was last week, wasn't it?"

There was a scattered chuckle.

Jeremy felt his face flush. "Two months. Birthday was two months ago. I enlisted day after." He met Damon's gaze easily, lifting his chin. Damon wasn't as intimidating like this, his hair a little longer, a little curlier, his eyes bare of over a century of anger. Finally, Damon nodded.

"Well. Looks like you just joined our merry band. Welcome." He arched an eyebrow, and Jeremy felt his stomach drop at the sight of a much less threatening expression that Elena had dubbed, 'the eye thing.' It was charming. "We're just glad that you can shoot. Henry still can't." Damon shot a grin toward the man with the mustache, the one who had first tried to talk to Jeremy. There was more laughter, and then the drums started back up.

Damon cast a glance behind him, and then he reached out and squeezed Jeremy's shoulder. "Just stick with us, yeah? You'll be fine."

But Damon wasn't as good at lying yet. Jeremy could see the doubt in his expression. He saw it in all of their faces. He pasted the best smile he could muster up on his face.

"Yeah," he said quietly, reaching up to tug Damon's hat a little lower over his head. He'd manage. Somehow.


	2. Burning

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: (eventual) Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Mature for graphic descriptions of violence.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: _Graphic_ description of violence, wounds (esp. gunshots), American Civil War era battles, _underage _(sixteen) _drinking_ for medicinal purposes.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 2998 words.

**[[ … Chapter Two: Burning … ]]**

"Your father teach you to shoot?"

Jeremy looked up from the musket he had been wiping down. He nodded. "Yeah." He had gone to Civil War reenactments regularly with his father until the car accident, and it had been kind of their thing, studying the family history. Jeremy knew for a fact that several Gilberts had fought in the war, and they even still had one or two of the old rifled muskets in storage at home.

His fingers tightened around the gun in his hands. He'd never expected to be ordered to fire at a person, although he'd also never been as grateful for the training his father had given him. He shrugged a little, reaching up to readjust the hat on his head.

"Father believed that every man should know how to shoot." Jeremy glanced up toward Damon, who was nodding, a wry smile on his lips.

"Sounds like mine. … What do you think? Two more days? Three?" Damon leaned back against the trench wall, gun propped up just beside him. He arched an eyebrow. "Until the reinforcements get here," he clarified, seeing Jeremy's confusion.

Jeremy shrugged. He couldn't remember how many days he'd already spent in the trench with Damon and Henry and Charles and everyone else. At least two, but no more than four. It was difficult to keep track when they were sleeping in shifts, when the day was broken up into sleep, shoot at charging men, clean and reload the guns in the trench, when he spent the entire day thinking, 'this is it; I'm going to die here.'

"Maybe," he finally said.

Damon reached over and put his hand on the back of Jeremy's neck, forcing him to look up. "They will be here," he said firmly, and Jeremy bit his bottom lip. Either Damon was getting better at lying or Jeremy was simply getting more desperate to believe him. Damon squeezed a little more, and it was strangely comforting.

Only after Jeremy nodded did Damon let him go, leaning back to look up toward the sky. Jeremy did the same, but he couldn't seem to enjoy it the way Damon did. He just kept wondering— if he died there, in the trench, a bullet in his chest or worse, died at the mercy of the 'first aid' he could expect— would his ring bring him back? Did the entire situation count as supernatural, since he wasn't even supposed to be there?

"Something green."

Jeremy blinked slowly, furrowing his brow as he tilted his head over to look at Damon. Damon's eyes were closed, but he had that same smug grin on his face. Jeremy sighed, but he couldn't stop the faint amusement at the sheer incredulity of the situation. "We're playing again?"

"Come on. What else do you have to do? You going to clean that gun again?" Damon reached over and pulled the hat off of Jeremy's head, plopping it down over his own face instead. Jeremy snorted and dug around beside him until he found a hat of his own to put back on.

"Fine. Something green. Tree leaves."

Damon resettled the hat until he could pull it low over his eyes. "You only said that because I was looking at the sky. No."

"Grass, then."

"What? Can you _see_ any grass from over there?" Damon was laughing though, and Jeremy basked in the sound of it. It was addictive, given that he'd never seen or heard Damon so _open_, so human. But Jeremy could see why Katherine would have wanted to turn him, even if she hadn't originally had plans on keeping him— Elena's journals and overheard snippets of conversation had filled in what no one wanted to tell him.

Damon was so eager to please, a strange mixture of confident and desperate. He was almost surreal, addictive even without the powers that he'd gained as a vampire. Jeremy was fascinated, and for a moment, he simply watched Damon laughing at him, not even caring that Damon really was laughing _at_ him. He felt the faintest beginnings of a blush, and he quickly looked away, reaching up to push his hat back a little on his head.

"All right then. Not grass, not leaves. Something... green." Jeremy considered his options. Almost everything was gray and brown, dirt and sand. He sighed, but he couldn't shake the smile he had. "I give up. What is it?"

Damon peered at him out from under the hat, and then he reached out, pushed Jeremy's hat off, and plopped the kepi back on top of Jeremy's head. "You, kid. Green as they come." And with that, he was chuckling and pulling a couple of biscuits out of his pack. He offered one to Jeremy, who took it hesitantly.

He hadn't gotten used to hardtack yet. Not _knowing_ what was in it, not with how hard they really were. He licked his lips, studying it as he turned it over in his hands. Damon had already started on his, muttering something about how they were at least soft enough to eat as they were.

Jeremy didn't want to think about having to eat them if they got any harder. He nibbled lightly on the edges, trying not to think of lard and salt and cornmeal, trying to remind himself that it was the only food he was going to be getting for a while.

"Are you making him choke it down dry? That's a bit cruel, even for you, Lieutenant." Henry offered a grin as he slid down to sit just on the other side of Jeremy. He held out a cup of coffee for Damon, who took it gingerly. The expression on Damon's face as he sipped it almost took Jeremy's breath away. He'd certainly never seen Damon so pleased about something as simple as a cup of what must have been truly awful coffee.

Damon dunked the biscuit into the cup, held it there, and after he pulled it back out, he sighed and held the cup out to Jeremy. Jeremy watched him chew the softened biscuit, and he shook his head. He could barely manage to keep the biscuit down with a few mouthfuls of water. He didn't want to think about how hard it would be to keep down coffee on top of that awful mixture.

"See? I'm not that cruel." Damon cast Henry a look, and he handed the cup back. "Who's on watch?"

"Charles."

A nod, and then Damon shoved the last of the biscuit into his mouth. He swallowed, and Jeremy struggled to keep from grinning at the expression he had as he finally got the thing down. He pointed a finger at Jeremy, who held up his hands in surrender, still working to keep his face as neutral as possible. Damon studied him carefully, and then he leaned back.

He took the hat from Jeremy's head, and he headed down the trench as he pulled it on. Jeremy reached up to brush his hair out a little, and Charles offered him the hat that Damon had shoved off of him once already. Jeremy offered him a smile and pulled it on.

"What was the game?"

Jeremy looked up from the piece of hardtack and blinked slowly before he realized what Henry was asking him about. "Oh, that Damon and I were playing?" When Henry nodded slowly, Jeremy felt a blush on his face. "Something my mother taught me. It's called uh.. I Spy? You say the color of something that you can see, and the other players guess what you're looking at."

Truthfully, he probably shouldn't be teaching them the game at all. He was pretty sure that it didn't exist in the late 1800s, or at least, not in that form. But he couldn't see how it would hurt to teach a few soldiers a simple child's game. Anything to relieve the stress.

Henry smiled, perhaps a little indulgently. Jeremy was very aware that none of them believed that he was eighteen. They all tended to treat him as a combination son-younger brother. He didn't really mind, but he had to admit that after only having Elena his whole life, it was strange to suddenly have so many people giving him that same, older-sibling smile.

"It's... It's just something take my mind off of it, you know?" Jeremy scraped one of his fingers down the side of his biscuit.

"Worse than you thought it would be?"

Jeremy laughed faintly, rolling his head back to look up at the sky. Henry had no idea how awful it really was. He didn't realize that the entire group of men would be suffering from diet deficiency before long, or that the North was going to win, or that a ridiculous number of men would be slaughtered before the entire thing came to an end. He pulled his jacket a little closer around himself and shrugged. He gave up on the biscuit, shoving it into one of his pockets.

A sharp whistle from down the trench, and Jeremy and Henry exchanged looks before they both grabbed their guns and headed down to where Damon and Charles were peeking over the edge. Jeremy frowned as he realized that they weren't looking toward the Union soldiers, but instead toward where Damon had shown him the reinforcements would come from.

"Is that—?"

Damon nodded quickly, a grin on his face. "It is. They made it. They're probably going to come in once it gets dark. No use turning themselves into target practice. All the same, get everyone up and on the line. I want cover fire in place in case they need it."

Henry nodded and hurried back to check the length of the trench. Jeremy took up position, laying the gun out over the dirt just on the outside of the trench. He closed his eyes for just a moment, calming himself down, and when he opened them, he smiled faintly at Damon who was positioned just beside him. They stayed like that for longer than Jeremy would have liked, an hour, two maybe.

"How many men do we have, Damon?" Jeremy kept his focus on the other side of the field, on watching for any sort of movement.

"Not enough. Most of them are dead." Damon leaned back just enough to look up toward the treeline behind them. "There's something wrong." He kept fidgeting, and Jeremy followed his gaze, his brow furrowing.

There was only one horse that they could see, pacing between the trees. One figure with the musket across his lap. He dismounted, tied the horse to one of the trees, and waved toward the trench. Damon hesitated, then waved back.

"He'd better be waiting..."

"Lieutenant!"

It was all the warning they got— all the warning they _needed_, they were so keyed up. Immediately, they opened fire on the charging line, and Jeremy wondered where his conscience had gone, that he didn't feel as guilty as he knew he should have. He felt _useful_, even knowing that the Union had to win the war. He felt as though he were defending his home, protecting people he knew. He swallowed the feelings, pushing them as far back as he could.

Their entire group was almost mechnical, firing, reloading, aiming, and repeating. Jeremy focused as best he could, and he would have done quite well, had it not been for the scream. He was pretty sure that he would hear that scream in his head for years.

He jerked up to his feet the moment he heard it, spinning around to see the man, the one from the treeline that they had been so sure was reinforcements, clutching at his leg. Jeremy cursed under his breath, dropped the gun, and he scrabbled out of the trench to grab the idiot who had charged toward the trench while under gunfire. Or had his sprint caused the gunfire?

There was no way to be sure.

Jeremy hauled him up and pushed him toward the trench. He did his best to keep low to the ground, but all the same he was a target. He should have been expecting to get hit. Should have, but he wasn't.

The bullet tore through his shoulder just as he crashed into the trench, and he kept staring at the blood spilling onto the dirt under him. He reached up to touch it, and his eyes widened as he realized that there was a _piece_ of his shoulder— not huge, but enough that blood seemed to just keep pouring out of it— missing, from the fleshy part, thankfully, but it was _missing_ all the same. He swallowed, feeling his stomach rolling, his throat tightening, and he gasped desperately even as heat started to prick at the backs of his eyes.

The man he'd pulled down was in the dirt— must have passed out— and Damon was shouting, reaching up to touch Jeremy's shoulder lightly. Something wet slid down the sides of Jeremy's face, he could _feel_ it cutting tracks through the dirt streaked over his face, and he was struggling to get enough breath in his lungs to ask Damon how bad it was. He didn't want to lose his arm.

He didn't want to die, not like this. When Damon pulled back, Jeremy clutched at his arm. He was _going_ to die in the bottom of a Civil War trench, and the only person who was going to be with him was someone who had already killed him once. But so help him, Jeremy couldn't let go.

He was only vaguely aware of Henry working on the fire, on making it hotter even as Damon flipped out a knife to hand to him. An Arkansas Toothpick, some part of Jeremy's mind labeled it, and when it passed by his head, he started laughing. DEO VINDICE was etched into the blade. _God will vindicate_. _With God as our champion_. He couldn't stop laughing as the various popular translations came to him.

He was hysterical.

Then Damon touched the wound a little too hard, and pain simply _blossomed_ from it. Jeremy screamed, his fingers digging even harder into Damon's arm, and he blinked, trying to get the yellow and red circles out of his vision. He couldn't see around them, couldn't breathe with the way his throat kept trying to close up. Damon put a tin cup to his lips, and he drank greedily until the burn of it scorched down his throat. Whiskey.

"Don't cut it," he whispered, and he was sobbing, even as Damon murmured something to him. Assurances, probably, knowing Damon. He'd keep promising that he wouldn't right up until he actually did it. Jeremy shook his head, struggling to sit up. He could smell the blood, smell what whiskey had spilled from his lips and down the front of his shirt, smell something burning.

"I-I don't wanna die, Damon..."

"You're not going to die. Shh... It's all right. It missed the bone."

Jeremy screamed when Damon cut the sleeve at the seam on his shoulder, pulling it open, exposing it to the frigid winter air. Vaguely, Jeremy realized that if anyone was going to 'doctor' him, it had to be Damon or Henry or one of the guys already in the trench. No one could risk spurring on another Union attack by changing trenches, so there would be no surgeon coming over.

Damon talked to him the whole time, laughing and joking with him. Telling him things like, "See, you'll have a manly scar to show ladies. You can charm them with more than just your pretty face." He ruffled Jeremy's hair, and Jeremy was vaguely aware that Damon had Jeremy's head in his lap. "You'll be a real heart breaker."

Jeremy groaned, and then he was aware of Damon peeling the shirt further from the wound. Henry was back, something in his hand, and Damon took it from him. Jeremy felt Henry straddle his chest, hold him down. He bucked, and Damon whispered to him a little more. Henry pushed a piece of twisted cloth into Jeremy's mouth.

Then the bastard pressed that hot knife to his shoulder.

Jeremy screamed for all that he was worth into the rag, alternating between that and biting until his jaw ached. He kept sobbing until he finally had no fight left, and Damon was still stroking his hair out of his face— he didn't know where his hat had gone. He sagged against the ground, gasping, his breath hitching just when he thought he'd finally caught it. Henry's weight disappeared, and Jeremy heard him ripping some fabric.

Damon passed him the knife, and Jeremy lay there, still shaking, his head on Damon's thigh. Damon didn't move him, just kept lightly brushing his fingers through Jeremy's hair. He was sweating, but he was freezing at the same time. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think enough to _tell_ Damon that he was cold, but apparently he didn't have to.

"Such a brave boy," Damon murmured, and he leaned over just enough to pull the closest blanket over. "Should have left him up there."

Jeremy shivered, realizing in that moment that he wished he would have. He felt Damon checking the wound on his shoulder, and he reached up to rub his eyes. He didn't have any tears left, didn't have any strength at all. But Damon wasn't asking him to be strong. None of the men had. They had all gritted their teeth and borne it as they were forced to practically torture him in order to stop the bleeding.

He wondered if stitching wouldn't have been a better idea.

He felt his shoulder throbbing, and he whimpered. Damon's hand lightly petted his head, the pads of his fingertips rubbing slightly with the motion. Jeremy drew a deep breath and relaxed into it. He slept that way, his head on Damon's thigh, Damon's hand in his hair.

Even with the gunshot, Jeremy felt strangely _safe_.


	3. Falling

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: (eventual) Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Teen for mention of American Civil War era battles and wounds sustained.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Mention of gunshot wounds.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 3143 words.  
**Author's Notes**: I wanted to thank everyone for all the support I have received for this piece of fiction! It really means the world to me that you're all taking the time to respond and leave me little notes with your thoughts on it. I freely admit that whenever I hit a writing slump, I tend to go back and reread those reviews to get me energized and ready to write some more.

I have had a few questions about the title of the piece (mostly in e-mail and private messages), so I thought I might go ahead and offer my explanation here. I titled it "Wings of a Butterfly," as a bit of a double reference. First, it references the butterfly effect as presented in "The Sound of Thunder," where changing just a few little things in the past can have major consequences in the present. It also references the song by HIM, "Rip Out the Wings of a Butterfly." That song asks whether or not the two lovers are prepared to destroy something beautiful and innocent (namely, a butterfly) in order to prove their devotion.

Now, leaving you with that bit of foreshadowing, I present chapter three.

**[[ … Chapter Three: Falling … ]]**

Going completely mad couldn't have been any worse than surviving a gunshot in the trenches during the Civil War. Jeremy was pretty sure that he would never be able to read about the war again without the remembering that horrific night he spent dozing in and out, only aware in the vaguest sense of the word that there was anything beyond the dull throbbing pain in his shoulder, anything more than the blistering heat he felt from his skin and the frigid air that blew over him. He knew that at some point, Damon had coaxed water down his throat, he could remember Damon talking to him, although he had no idea what it was about.

Part of him really wished that he _would_ die.

But Damon and Henry and everyone else in the trench seemed determined to keep him there, and he knew better than to argue with Damon. It was always better to give in and go around his back. Too bad Damon didn't leave him alone long enough; Jeremy couldn't will himself to die in the space of time that it took Damon to get another cupful of water.

"—too jagged. The skin would never have held—"

Jeremy was pretty sure that Damon was defending his call to cauterize the wound over stitching it. He couldn't bring himself to care, but as he struggled to sit up, Damon came back over to him.

"Hey, Jeremy." He reached out and touched the backs of his fingers to Jeremy's forehead, and Jeremy laughed. He'd have never imagined _Damon_ being so concerned, checking him for a fever and being _serious_ about it.

Jeremy managed a small smile. "Hey," he croaked, coughing as he forced his throat to work properly. Damon pushed another cup of water into his hands, and Jeremy drank it before he realized that surely he'd used most of his own water ration already. He cast a look toward Damon, but Damon didn't so much as flinch under it. Instead, he just reached up and pulled his kepi down a little more on his head.

"How—" Another cough, and then Jeremy shook his head. "How long was I out?"

"Few hours. Didn't miss much."

"Reinforcements?"

Damon glanced back toward where the guy was propped up, a stretch of cloth tied off around his leg. They had probably cauterized his wound too. "Not yet. Few more days. Doesn't matter for you and me though."

"What?" Jeremy licked his bottom lip, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You can't shoot. Not until that heals properly, anyway." Another moment, and then Damon leaned in a little closer to him. "That man? He's a messenger. They're sending me home. Something came up, back at home. They're giving me leave to head back. You can come with me since you got shot."

Jeremy took a moment to absorb that. Damon was going back to Mystic Falls. It was like a switch had been flipped in his head. Of _course_ Damon was going back; he had to meet Katherine. The vampire round-up would be happening in a few months. That meant Emily would be there, in Mystic Falls, and if anyone could send him home, it would be Emily.

He hesitated, careful of seeming over-eager. "No... No one will care if I go?"

Damon snorted. "You're not eighteen, Jeremy." He held up a finger to silence Jeremy's protest before it even came out. "You're _not_ eighteen, and you've been shot. If anything, they'll be glad that you're gone."

Jeremy nodded slowly, and that was how he ended up later that evening offering Henry and Charles and everyone else a final salute beside Damon. _An honor serving with you_, he had told them, and he wondered if he could find out what happened to them after he returned home. He was a little more optimistic about his chances of surviving this knowing that Emily was going to be in Mystic Falls.

Damon and he slipped like theives across the darkened field, and both of them breathed quiet little sighs of relief as they hit the treeline with no shots fired. They only had the one horse, and Damon offered him another carefree grin before he hoisted himself up, then pulled Jeremy up to sit behind him.

Jeremy fidgeted, having never ridden before, let alone ridden double like that. To be honest, he wasn't entirely certain of the protocol in place there. It was intense, being pressed up against Damon that way, and he didn't have a choice but to wrap his arms around Damon's middle unless he wanted to fall off. By the time they stopped, well away from the battlefield, Jeremy's thighs were aching.

Damon helped him down, and he studied Jeremy wincing for a few minutes before he started laughing. "You've never ridden a horse?" He said it like he couldn't believe it, like he was making a joke at Jeremy's expense. Jeremy couldn't stop the flush of heat in his face.

"No," he finally muttered, refusing to look up. He sipped from the canteen before he leaned over to refill it from the stream they'd stopped at. "Never have."

"So, you shoot, but you don't ride?" Damon chuckled, snagged the canteen, and took a long drink. "How have you managed to never learn to ride?" He stuck the canteen back into the stream to refill it before he handed it to Jeremy.

Jeremy just shrugged, a little smile on his face. "Never had a chance. Walked everywhere." Until he'd gotten his driving license, but Damon wouldn't understand that. He looked up. "How far is it?"

"Oh, you're going to hurt by the time we get there." Damon crouched down beside him. Jeremy was a little uncomfortable with just how intently Damon studied him, and he nodded, jerking his eyes down to gaze at the sand beside him.

"I figured."

Damon reached out and ruffled his hair. Jeremy supposed that it was something he should get used to; it was a sight better than getting choked all the time though. He reached up and took Damon's hat, pulling it down low over his eyes.

"Let's get started?"

Damon laughed. "Eager little thing, aren't you?" He stood, checked out the horse, and nodded. "All right then. Let's go." He pulled himself back up, helped Jeremy on behind him, and clicked the horse back onto the faint road. Jeremy leaned forward, pressing the side of his face onto Damon's back. Damon didn't stop him, didn't seem to be bothered by it, so he closed his eyes.

He couldn't sleep like that, but at the least, he could rest.

Turned out that riding the horse was exactly like living in the trenches, except with more pain. Jeremy lost track of the days, couldn't even figure out how Damon was navigating since they avoided most cities and large towns. They walked the horse through a few smaller ones, but with their uniforms and muskets, they were given a fairly wide berth.

No one was rude; quite the opposite. If they smiled or tipped the one hat (Damon's) between them, everyone they passed would return the smile. Men would tip their own hats, ladies would curtsey, but no one approached them. Jeremy was distinctly uncomfortable, made even worse the first time someone mistook him for Damon's little brother.

Damon simply grinned, retorted, "I had to fetch him, you know? Mother would be ill to know he was out here," and winked. They got more food that day, but Jeremy's skin crawled at the mistake. He wasn't Damon's brother, and he _certainly_ didn't want to be. He didn't let himself dwell on the thought for too long though.

It was the second— maybe third— day that they were on the road when Damon noticed Jeremy's bracelet. Jeremy was jarred awake by feeling Damon tugging on it a little, and he blinked slowly. Damon was wearing his hat again; Jeremy couldn't sleep with it on.

"What are you doing?" He mumbled the words into Damon's back, and if he let himself think about it, he was a little shocked that Damon even heard him. But Damon kept toying with the bracelet, and Jeremy finally flicked open the clasp, letting it come off so that Damon could look at it.

"This is exquisite," Damon finally said, holding it up so that he could look at it. Jeremy shrugged, rubbed his face against Damon's back in a vain attempt to get the sleep out of his eyes, and glanced up at it. He supposed that it was natural Damon was attracted to the piece. Stefan _had_ 'borrowed' it from Damon before giving to Elena to give to Jeremy. Damon had made certain that Jeremy was aware that his vervain bracelet was actually _his_ bracelet.

"Sister gave it to me. Supposed to protect me." Jeremy smiled as he realized that human Damon was just as fascinated with superantural jewelry as vampire Damon had been. He supposed that the interest had to come from somewhere.

Damon chuckled. "Well, it did the job, didn't it? That gunshot could have been a lot worse."

Jeremy nodded, propping his chin up on Damon's shoulder to look at the bracelet. He smiled. "Why don't you keep it?"

"What? No, it's yours." But Damon didn't relinquish the piece right away. His fingers lingered over the small clasp. Jeremy grinned.

"You're supposed to pass on good luck charms," Jeremy replied, and he leaned back a little. "Keeps the luck good."

"Luck doesn't spoil." Damon didn't stop him though as Jeremy reached up to take the bracelet, as he determinedly put the bracelet over Damon's wrist. As the clasp closed, Jeremy felt his breath hitch, felt a shiver down his back. "Thank you." Damon twisted around in the seat to give him a little grin, and Jeremy smiled as normally as he could. When Damon looked back ahead, Jeremy leaned forward, putting his forehead in between Damon's shoulder blades.

He closed his eyes, waited for the shivers to subside, and twisted his ring around his finger. He had to stop changing things, had to stop influencing the past. Katherine _had_ to seduce Damon, had to claim him, to turn him. He couldn't see the end result of his actions while he was like this, couldn't _risk_ changing anything too much. He swallowed.

Damon must have noticed his mood, because when they stopped again, Damon was unusually gentle as he changed the bandage on Jeremy's shoulder. He took the time to show Jeremy how to do it with one hand, just in case. Jeremy's whole life, it seemed, had become '_just in case_.' Damon sat beside him, both of them with their backs against a tree, guns in their laps.

In some ways, it was like they'd never left the trench. Except that they were sitting on grass instead of dirt, they had actual pieces of bacon to eat instead of just hardtack— a kind woman at the last farm they'd passed offered them the bacon in exchange for Damon helping her split a few logs. Everything considered, it was decent enough.

By the time they reached Mystic Falls, Jeremy was pretty sure that he was never going to be able to walk normally again. They went straight to the Salvatore house, and Jeremy laughed as Damon bounded up the small set of stairs, two at a time, before he rapped briskly on the door. Damon twisted around to grin at him, and Jeremy shook his head as he followed, albiet much more slowly.

They were admitted and let into the study that Damon's father clearly preferred. Jeremy felt increasingly out of place in the house, and when Mr. Salvatore arrived, Jeremy ducked his head. Mr. Salvatore didn't even seem to see him though; his entire focus was on Damon.

"I didn't expect you so soon." He didn't embrace his son though, and Jeremy shifted, wondering if it wouldn't have been better to wait outside. But Damon had refused to hear that, so Jeremy was stuck in the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

"I wasn't expecting to be called back." Damon's voice was lower than Jeremy had expected, given his enthusiasm for being home. In fact, most of Damon's good humor seemed to have evaporated the moment his father walked into the room. He must have been expecting to see Stefan first. "Did something happen?"

"No, no. Of course not. I asked that you be sent home for the holidays." Mr. Salvatore shuffled a few sheets of paper around on the desk in the room. He looked up only when Jeremy shifted again, his eyes narrowing sharply. "Who is this?"

Damon glanced back at Jeremy, offering him a brief smile before he turned to look at his father. "Jeremy Gilbert. From Shreveport."

Mr. Salvatore crossed the room, leaning forward just a little to study Jeremy. "Related to Johnathan Gilbert?"

"Yessir. He's my cousin." Jeremy held his head up straight, uncertain of what exactly he was supposed to do. Thankfully, Mr. Salvatore seemed to notice his discomfort, because he extended his hand. Jeremy gave him the very best handshake he could manage. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Giuseppe. Were you serving with Damon?"

"Yessir." Jeremy didn't look back over at Damon though, somehow certain that it would have been a bad idea. "He ah... He saved my life." He rolled his shoulder, and Mr. Salvatore nodded slowly. For the life of him, Jeremy couldn't bring himself to think of the man as 'Giuseppe.'

"I see. Well, I'll have a room made up for you. Johnathan is out of town currently. You can stay here, at least until he returns."

Jeremy hesitated, his initial reaction to immediately and politely refuse, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. Truthfully, he shouldn't even expect Johnathan to house him whenever he returned. He blushed and bowed his head to Mr. Salvatore. "Thank you for your hospitality. I do hate to intrude—"

"Nonsense." Mr. Salvatore reached out and touched his good shoulder. "You were wounded serving your country. The least I can do is offer you a room to sleep in until your cousin returns home." Mr. Salvatore looked at them both for a few more minutes, then waved his hand and returned to his desk. "Show him around, Damon. You and I can speak later."

Damon immediately slipped from the study, and Jeremy followed, right on Damon's heels. He let out a breath he hadn't realized that he was holding, shocked that Mr. Salvatore scared him where so many life-threatening situations hadn't. Not even the first time he'd gone toe-to-toe with Katherine had terrified him quite the same way.

"He's... intense, isn't he?" Jeremy grinned at Damon, who laughed as they headed down the hallway.

"One way of putting it," Damon shot back, and then they were both grinning, as though they had gotten away with some sort of mischief.

He couldn't tell Damon, but in a way, they really _had_ gotten away with mischief. They had successfully passed off Jeremy as Johnathan's cousin instead of as his great-whatever-grandson. Jeremy wondered if Damon would still find that funny after the whole thing was over.

"Let's see, my brother should be..." Damon glanced in a few rooms as they passed them, and he shrugged. "Well, somewhere. We can find him later. Let's see if we can't get some real clothes." He raised his eyebrow, and Jeremy nodded quickly.

A fresh change sounded absolutely amazing after so many day of only having that poor deserter's clothes to wear.

Damon took him upstairs, and they found clothes, although one of the house slaves had to let out the ends of the legs to make the pants long enough for Jeremy. Everything swam on his slender frame, but he still felt less ridiculous than he had. Damon was closer to his build than the deserter had been.

"Never mind about it. We'll get something made for you." Damon shrugged off Jeremy's polite refusals. Jeremy figured that Damon delighted in an excuse to spend his father's money. "Now, let's locate my little brother, shall we?"

They set off, and they finally found Stefan in the back, staring idly out over the small maze. He had a small leather-bound journal in front of him. Jeremy's grin widened a touch; Elena had no idea how long Stefan really had been writing.

"Hello, brother." Damon leaned over Stefan's chair, reaching out to ruffle Stefan's hair the same way he always did Jeremy's. "Are you _writing_ again? To me this time, yes?"

Stefan laughed, even as he snapped the book shut, probably smudging the page he'd been working on. "Damon! When did you get home?" But he didn't wait for Damon's answer, instead just wrapping his arms around Damon and hugging him.

Jeremy felt like an intruder in that moment, witnessing such a genuine affection between them. He had always seen the undertone of it in their interactions— no matter what Damon did, he would _never_ have actually endangered Stefan— but he had never seen them so open about it. He looked out over the maze.

"Just got back. Stefan, this is Jeremy Gilbert. He's from Shreveport." Damon wrapped an arm over Jeremy's shoulders, pulling him down to his own height.

Jeremy blushed but smiled all the same. "Pleasure to meet you, Stefan. Were you journaling?"

Stefan hesitated, his fingers tight around the little book. Damon had probably teased him more than once for it.

"My ah... My sister journals. I just thought that it was nice to see someone else doing it."

Stefan's smile relaxed, and he laughed a little, tapping the his fingers over the spine of the book. "Father wants me to do it. Says that it is a good practice to be in."

"He's just annoyed that you haven't learned to shoot yet. Jeremy here shoots better than you." Damon ruffled Jeremy's hair too, and Jeremy pulled out from under his arm, reaching up to straighten it back.

"You served with Damon then? In the war?" Stefan tilted his head curiously.

"Yeah."

"You..." Stefan hesitated, then held out his hand, palm up. "Forgive me, you just don't look old enough."

Damon laughed, and he whispered loudly, "He's not." He raised an eyebrow as he looked back at Jeremy.

"I'm eighteen," Jeremy lied quickly. The last thing that he wanted was to cause any sort of trouble. "No matter what Damon says. I'm eighteen."

"Oh, he says it so convincingly!" Damon exchanged a look with Stefan, but Jeremy stood firm. Damon, recognizing when it was futile, turned back to Stefan. "So, little brother, you have us both all to yourself for the holidays."

Jeremy wished that he had been able to sketch that moment too. Damon and Stefan both looked so peaceful, so _happy_. He wished that he didn't know what was coming.


	4. Landing

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: (eventual) Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Teen.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Mild language and sexual tension.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 2761 words.

**[[ … Chapter Four: Landing … ]]**

"Are you drawing _again_?"

At the sound of Damon's voice, Jeremy quickly flipped the page over. It wouldn't do for Damon to see just how many of the sketches were actually of _him_. He pasted the blandest smile that he could manage on his face, even as he stuffed the piece of charcoal back into the small tin case he'd found for it. He reached for the small cloth to wipe the dust from his hands before he looked up.

"Just a little. Stefan writes; I draw. Did you have something else planned for the day?" It wouldn't surprise Jeremy in the slightest. The past few days had been little more than a whirlwind of activity. They'd introduced Jeremy to just about everyone in town, Damon had insisted that he and Jeremy continue to practice shooting, and once Jeremy had recovered from their trip home, Damon had also begun to teach him to ride. At the thought, Jeremy winced. He would rather play football again than spend another day with the horses.

Damon arched an eyebrow. "Johnathan is back home." He leaned in the doorway, folding his arms over his chest.

Jeremy swallowed, careful to keep his face neutral. "Yeah?" He closed the small book he'd taken to sketching in. "When did he arrive?"

"Last night." Damon leaned his head against the frame of the door, and Jeremy licked his bottom lip slowly. There was a reaction that Damon was looking for from him, and Jeremy wasn't entirely certain what it was.

"Well. I should go see him then." He pushed himself up from the chair. He raised an eyebrow at Damon, well aware that he had been spending far too much time with him. Jeremy was beginning to copy his facial expressions. "Care to join me?"

"Oh, it was either that or spend another lovely morning with Father." Damon snorted and pushed off of the door frame. Jeremy forced his smile to stay in place; he was certain that Damon didn't want to hear _his_ opinion on Mr. Salvatore. He was also pretty sure that everyone in the house pretended not to hear the fights between the eldest son and the father, or that everyone in the house pretended not to notice when Damon was sporting a particularly nasty bruise.

That morning, he had the faintest hint of one over his cheekbone. Jeremy was polite enough not to mention it, although he did let his gaze linger long enough to tell Damon that he had noticed it.

"Have you ever met him?"

Jeremy glanced over toward Damon, a slight frown on his face. "Uncle Johnathan?" When Damon nodded, Jeremy shook his head. "No. Never been up here before, you know? Uncle Johnathan doesn't— hasn't ever left Mystic Falls." He shrugged, but his breathing quickened at the almost-slip. He couldn't afford those. "What about you? You've met him."

"Of course. He and Father do some sort of business together." Damon grinned at him, shoving his hands into his pockets. He glanced back toward the road, toward the town rapidly filling their vision. "Mostly to do with his inventions. Johnathan spends a lot of time on that sort of thing."

Jeremy nodded slowly, and they fell quiet as they walked. It wasn't until they passed the apocethary that he suddenly stopped, feeling another shiver run down his spine. He looked back over his shoulder, and he felt everything in him go perfectly still as he met an all-too-familiar dark gaze.

Anna. Annabell. She had a small box on her hip, a bonnet on her head, and she smiled the most innocent smile that Jeremy had ever seen on her face. Like Damon, the tortured broody attitude wasn't there, not yet. She seemed so perfectly normal that it made Jeremy's heart skip a beat.

"What? Do you know her?" Damon stood beside him, looking at Anna curiously as she slipped back into the apothecary. Jeremy swallowed as he met Pearl's eyes, and he offered her a faint smile and bowed his head. Quickly, he turned on his heel and shook his head.

"No. I've never met her." A blush lit his face, and he started walking again, forgetting that Damon was supposed to be showing him the way. In fact, had Damon not caught his elbow, Jeremy might have hurried all the way back to the Gilbert house on complete auto-pilot. He hadn't been prepared to see her. He _knew_ she would be there, had to know that. Pearl was going to be trapped in the round-up, and Anna would be torn apart by the grief and pain of losing her mother, only to come back and tear the town apart to get her mother back. He bit his bottom lip, reaching up to push his hand through his hair.

Damon was still staring at him, his eyes narrowed sharply, and Jeremy hesitated, realizing that he needed an explanation. And one that Damon could buy, something believable. He bit his lip a little harder, then said, "I... She looks like someone I know. From Shreveport."

Damon nodded slowly, but that gaze was still on him, still suspicious. "Yeah? A 'special' girl from Shreveport?"

"I thought so." Jeremy glanced back toward the apothecary. "But no, turns out she wasn't." He touched Damon's hand lightly, dislodging it from his wrist. "My apologies. I just... I wasn't prepared to see someone who looked so much like her." He laughed a little sheepishly and his blush darkened.

A smile crossed Damon's face, and then he tucked Jeremy under his shoulder and ruffled his hair. "Understandable, kid. You never forget _that_ girl." He laughed, and Jeremy twisted away from him, a matching grin on his own face.

"I bet you don't," he said quietly, staring at the road under their feet. "Does it keep hurting even after you know better?"

"Oh, yes." Damon's smile faded just a little, and then he shook his head. "Come on. Gilbert house is just up here."

Soon as they stepped up to the door, Jeremy could feel his mouth drying out. It seemed that his nerves were perpetually on edge here, stuck in a constant state of terror. He supposed that was only natural, given that he was pretending to be someone else, and not succeeding could get him into a seriously bad situation— or dead.

Johnathan came to the door, blinking very slowly against the light as he opened it. "Damon. I wasn't expecting you. Does Giuseppe need anything?"

Damon shook his head, smiled, and stepped to one side. "No, Johnathan. It's not that. I have someone you might be interested in meeting." He glanced toward Jeremy, raising an eyebrow.

Jeremy could take a hint. He stepped forward, offering his hand. "Sir? My name is Jeremy Gilbert. I'm ah... Richard's youngest." He couldn't let himself breathe a sigh of relief, even when recognition dawned on Johnathan and he nodded.

"Right. Jeremy." Johnathan's brow furrowed, and then he smiled apologetically. "I thought your name was James... or John."

"Ah, no, sir." Jeremy blushed again, this time because he really was misleading Johnathan. Richard's youngest was named James, but Johnathan didn't have enough contact with the family to remember that. Jeremy was never more thankful that he'd read all of Johnathan's journals than in that moment, standing on the doorstep of the ancestor who couldn't have 'invented' a working clock with a diagram at his disposal.

"Jeremy..." Johnathan released his hand slowly, still staring at him. His eyes narrowed on Damon. "How did you come by my cousin?"

Damon held up a hand. "Completely innocent. He enlisted."

"You _served_?" Johnathan's eyes widened. "You're not eighteen."

Jeremy hesitated, well aware of Damon's gleeful smirk. He purposely ignored Damon. "Perhaps you've misremembered my birthday, Uncle Johnathan?" He arched an eyebrow, trying to convey his predicament without actually saying it. He couldn't bring himself to admit to that with Damon looming over his shoulder.

"Or perhaps you're a liar," Damon shot back. "He ended up on the battlefield with me. Got himself shot while pulling someone into the trench."

Jeremy fidgeted as Johnathan turned wide eyes to the bandage that he was just noticing on Jeremy's shoulder. "Really, it wasn't—"

"He had to come home for a rest. Isn't it lovely that you'll have him here for the holidays, Johnathan?"

Jeremy gave Damon his very best withering look, trying to get him to stop. It was like trying to stop a tidal wave by wading out into the surf and holding out his arms.

"And just _think_, Jeremy. You can help dear Uncle Johnathan with his inventions!" Damon looked back toward Johnathan. "You're always mentioning that it would be nice to have an apprentice. It could be the family business."

"I hate you," Jeremy muttered, and Johnathan started laughing. Jeremy was pretty sure that he'd _never_ been as red as he was in that moment.

Damon's grin widened, completely unrepentant. "Oh, Jeremy... Is that any way to talk to someone who you're staying with?"

"Are you staying with the Salvatores? Damon, can he stay there a few more days? I have some things that I have to unpack—"

"Of course. We _love_ having him."

It was the expression Damon gave him when he said it that sent the tremor down Jeremy's back. Something about it was particularly suggestive. Jeremy licked his bottom lip, narrowed his eyes, and smiled. He was all innocence. "And I am quite enjoying your hospitality, Mr. Salvatore," he replied. Damon's gaze sharpened, and Jeremy wondered for only a moment _what_ exactly was happening between them.

"Good, good. Damon, tell your father that I have the things he asked for. I can bring them by in a few days." Without waiting for their answer, Johnathan disappeared into the house again, and Damon looked at Jeremy, something in the backs of his eyes.

"Are we heading back then?" Jeremy was very careful as he said it. For at least the moment, Damon looked as though he might actually tackle Jeremy right there in the street. For the moment, he looked like, well, Jeremy's Damon from his own time period. "To the house?"

"Is there anything else you wanted while we were here?" Damon guided him back toward the street, heading up to the Salvatore house. Jeremy shook his head, and as they walked back, a carriage passed them. Jeremy wouldn't have noticed it at all, except that there was a face in the window, glancing out over them.

Elena.

No, Katherine.

He swallowed. The moment of truth. She would have Emily, who could, with any luck, undo the spell that had him stuck here, and he could go back and Damon... Well, everything would be as it was supposed to be.

His eyes flicked over to the apothecary, where Pearl was putting out a sign in the window. He shook himself, focusing back on the road under his feet. He couldn't change anything. Wasn't supposed to. It was already bad enough that he'd given Damon a Vervain bracelet.

He instinctively reached into his pocket for the small piece of Vervain he'd tucked there as soon as he'd found a patch. It was harder than he would have liked, trying to remember what it looked like as a green plant, had taken him almost an hour. When he'd come back with a fistful of flowers and greenery, Damon had almost laughed him out of the room.

He had later sketched Damon with the bouquet. It was one of his favorites.

"What is it?"

"What?" Jeremy looked over at Damon's concerned expression, and he shook his head. "No, it's nothing. I'm just out of it today."

"Out of it?"

Jeremy smiled, shrugging. "Not all here? Kind of spacey?" He hesitated, and then he added, "My head is in the clouds."

Damon nodded. "Stefan does that," he finally said quietly. "Spends entire days not thinking about anything really. Or, thinking about everything at once. Worrying about what he can't do and struggling to do everything at once."

No matter how bitterly Damon said the words, he had one of the most indulgent smiles that Jeremy had ever seen. Damon loved his brother; Jeremy wouldn't ever doubt that again. He couldn't figure out what exactly had happened between them to cause the rift he knew about. Well, he couldn't believe that the rift had been caused purely by Katherine.

He supposed he was underestimating the power a woman had.

They reached the house shortly after the carriage had been pulled around to the back, and Jeremy blew out a soft breath. Katherine was laughing in the foyer with Stefan, Emily standing just behind her. Jeremy smiled, his hand brushing over the vervain in his pocket once more, reassuring himself that it was there.

Stefan gave them a warm grin, holding out a hand to Katherine. "Miss Pierce, meet my brother, Damon. Damon, this is Miss Katherine Pierce. She will be staying with us as well." He raised an eyebrow, and Jeremy was struck by how important it was to him that Damon approve of the arrangement. He glanced over at Damon and drew a sharp breath.

Damon was clearly smitten by her, taking her hand and kissing the back of it lightly, his eyes lingering over every inch of her face. She didn't have to compel him. Damon had always said it, but Jeremy had never really believed him. Perhaps because he couldn't see Katherine as anything more than a manipulative bitch.

She looked toward Jeremy expectantly, a smile on her face, and Jeremy bowed his head quickly, hands behind his back. "Miss Pierce," he said, as cordially as he could manage. "I'm Jeremy Gilbert."

"He served with me in the war," Damon supplied, lowering her hand slowly. The sound of Jeremy's voice seemed to have broken whatever spell had been placed on him, because the very faintest of blushes lit his face as he looked back toward Jeremy. "He's staying with us until his uncle in town can make room for him."

"How hospitable," Katherine said smoothly. Her smile was perfect; it was unnerving, to see her so at ease. He had only ever seen her impersonating her sister, and seeing her standing there, clearly her own woman... she was nothing like Elena except in their physical appearance. They stood differently, spoke differently, even walked differently.

"They are the epitome of Southern hospitality," he agreed.

"You don't look old enough to have served the Confederate States, Jeremy." Katherine had the same knowing smile on her face that Damon normally did. Oddly, Jeremy didn't find it as amusing.

"I look younger than I am, Miss Pierce."

"Oh, Jeremy, go get your charcoal. You have to show Miss Pierce your sketches." Damon turned toward him, and Jeremy hesitated. Damon looked absolutely enthusiastic, and while Jeremy wanted to indulge that, he didn't want to entertain or draw any more attention to himself than necessary.

He smiled faintly. "Why don't we allow Miss Pierce the day to recover from her travels? I am sure that if she is staying here, there must be some sort of reason." He tilted his head, and Katherine nodded slowly.

"Sadly," she said softly, and then she turned a little ways from them all. Jeremy frowned as both brothers stepped forward, exchanged looks, and then stepped back. Stefan was the one to lightly touch her arm, to comfort her, but Damon was hovering, almost right behind him. Within moments, they had whisked her away to the study, presumably so that she could tell them her sad orphan story.

Jeremy stayed in the foyer, and Emily hesitated before she bowed her head. As she walked by, Jeremy grabbed her elbow, and he murmured lowly, "I need to speak with you, Miss Bennett." He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and when her eyes narrowed, he immediately shook his head. "Not for that. You're from Salem."

She froze under his touch, her eyes widening.

He let her go and held up his hands. "I'm not going to out you, I swear," he whispered quickly. "I just need to talk to you. It's about your daughter."

"No daughter," she said, just as quietly, and Jeremy nodded.

"Not yet."

There was another moment of silence between them, and she finally nodded. "Very well. Meet me outside tomorrow morning, before she wakes."

Jeremy smiled at her. "Thank you," he whispered, and he stepped away from her. He headed back to his room. After another minute, he pulled out the piece of charcoal and started sketching. He needed to think.


	5. Drifting

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: (eventual) Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Teen.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Mild references to violence.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 2866 words.

**[[ … Chapter Five: Drifting … ]]**

Jeremy lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. He was exhausted— keeping up the pretense had been easy enough in the trenches, but only because no one had really been interested in anything beyond surviving the next attack. In the Salvatore house, Jeremy had to be careful of everything, had to make sure that his manners were what would be expected, had to make sure that anything unusual he said could simply be explained away as a turn of phrase. However, no matter how worn out he was, he couldn't sleep.

His room was directly above the study. And he could hear the shouting, hear Damon trying to shush his father, trrying to remind him that they had guests, but Giuseppe was beyond that. He'd been drinking since early afternoon, and whenever Jeremy saw him, he always seemed to have a glass of brandy or whiskey or _whatever_ it was that he drank so heavily from.

It was a little surreal, given that most of the times that Jeremy had seen Damon, Damon had been the one holding the glass, swishing the alcohol inside around so absent-mindedly. That had been in 2009 though, and here, in 1863-soon-to-be-1864, Damon rarely drank anything at all.

Jeremy stood at the first crash, reaching for the jacket Damon had found for him. He couldn't lay there and listen to another night of it. He crept out into the hall, stopped for just a moment at the top of the stairs, and when a hand fell onto his shoulder, he jumped, biting his tongue to keep from shouting. He glared at Katherine, who had a small smile on her face before she quickly shifted into a concerned expression.

"Is everything all right?" She sounded genuinely worried, and Jeremy stared at her, realizing that she was probably getting information about the Salvatores. She was new in town, after all, and she would need to know everything about the family that she could exploit.

He hesitated, then smiled warmly at her. "Of course, Miss Pierce. Did they wake you?" When she nodded, Jeremy glanced back toward the study door. He heard a second crash— probably another glass thrown into the fireplace. "They'll settle down soon. You can go back to bed."

Katherine didn't move though, only crouched down to sit just beside Jeremy on the top stair. "Will you wait for him?" She looked up at him through Elena's eyes, and Jeremy couldn't let himself look at her. He drew a deep breath before he nodded. Katherine could hear his heartbeat, could smell the emotions surging through him. He was well aware of that simple fact.

"I will. Go on. Everything will be fine."

Something in her face shifted at those words, and she leaned a little closer to him. He fidgeted, but he couldn't pull away from her without triggering questions that he didn't want to answer. "Miss Pierce?"

"You are such a good friend, Mr. Gilbert." She smiled widely, and Jeremy realized vaguely that she was _flirting_ with him. It was there in the way that she tilted her head to look up at him, there in the way that she reached out and lightly touched his wrist. He couldn't stop himself then; he jerked his hand away from her, standing and stepping down a step, just to put some space in between them.

Her smile faded a little then, and she slowly stood as well, her eyes narrowing sharply. Quickly, Jeremy gave her a bland smile of his own— he was getting better at those.

"Miss Pierce, my apologies, but... You look like my sister." He laughed as quietly as he could, reaching up to rub his hand over the back of his neck. He drew a breath when she stood, and she leaned in to look at him, her pupils narrowing to pinpricks.

Jeremy felt a chill run down his back, he had the briefest memory of Damon sitting beside him, telling him that everything was for the best, and he stood perfectly still. He was pretty sure that she was going to compell him, and he was thankful for the Vervain that he'd stashed in the pocket of the jacket.

"Jeremy," she said lowly, reaching out to brush her fingers over the front of his shirt. "You won't remember this."

"I won't remember this," he repeated quietly, careful to keep his breathing as even as he could. He had never seen anyone being compelled, but from the satisfied nod she gave him, he figured that he had guessed the reaction correctly. He didn't move until she disappeared down the hallway, and then another crash from the study and the door flew open.

Jeremy quickly stepped back into the hallway upstairs, and when Damon stormed by, he reached out and grabbed his arm. Damon spun around, but the anger faded once he saw who it was. Jeremy reached up, one eyebrow raised, and wiped some of the blood from a small cut just under one of Damon's eyes. Damon offered him a faint smile, and Jeremy sighed before he dragged Damon back into his room.

They had medical supplies there thanks to the need to change Jeremy's bandage, so he pushed Damon down to sit on the bed and started wiping up the blood. There wasn't as much as there could have been, and truthfully, by the time Jeremy leaned back, Damon was sagging against him, practically asleep already. After just a moment, Jeremy peeled off Damon's boots, sighing as he noticed the glass stuck in the bottoms of them.

"I hate him," Damon muttered, slamming his hand against the pillow with less force than he probably intended. Jeremy put a hand in the middle of Damon's back; he didn't move it, just let it rest there, and Damon turned over after a minute, so that Jeremy's hand rested in the middle of his chest.

Jeremy folded one of his legs under himself and sighed, leaning back. "I know," he replied quietly. For what it was worth, he wanted to say, Damon would get away from Giuseppe. For that matter, the man didn't have much longer to live. But he couldn't say those things, couldn't let himself slip up that badly. "It's funny," he realized outloud, and he had Damon's attention, so he continued the thought, "My... friend back home fought with his father. All the time."

Damon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"And the man was a real jerk. He'd belittle his son in front of everyone, practically hit him right there." Jeremy propped himself up with one arm. "Then he died, and Tyler... He just looked so lost at the funeral. Not because he missed his father, but because he didn't know what to do without that constant there anymore."

"Is this one of those, 'deep down, you really love your father' stories, Jeremy?" And there it was, the Damon that Jeremy knew. He grinned at the disbelief written over Damon's face.

"Oh, hell no. Your father... he's a piece of work. I think a lot of people will feel safer after he's gone." Jeremy shrugged.

Damon snorted, but a faint smile touched his face as he pushed his hands under the pillow under his head. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Lot of people."

Giuseppe would be in a mood the next morning, and Damon wouldn't be much better. Jeremy brushed Damon's hair back and watched him drift off. He sat on the floor, back against the bed, for the rest of the night, just feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him. He had to get back home, had to before he lost control of himself and started changing things. He was pretty sure that he'd already changed a few things, but nothing that would be truly terrible.

He wouldn't let himself think about every time travel movie he'd ever watched.

By the time the sun rose, he was grateful. Damon was curled up on his bed, fresh scratches on his face and hands, but he looked peaceful enough. Jeremy sighed, pulled his jacket back on, and headed out toward the maze in the back. He crossed the yard, realizing only then that they hadn't set an actual meeting place.

"Mr. Gilbert."

Apparently, that didn't matter. He turned around and offered Emily his most charming smile. She only arched an eyebrow, clearly not impressed with it. He supposed that after living with Katherine for any amount of time, one did cease to be impressed with charm. Instead, he offered her his arm, and they headed out, away from the house.

"Miss Bennett," he finally said, only once he was certain that Katherine wouldn't be able to hear them. She stepped away from him, tilting her head back expectantly. "Look, I wouldn't ask to speak to you like this if it weren't important."

"What exactly did you need to speak with me about?" She folded her arms over her stomach. "And it's not about any daughter. I can feel the magic on your skin."

Jeremy licked his bottom lip, unable to stop himself from glancing at his arm. "Is it noticeable?" He frowned. "Like, to people who aren't witches?"

Emily studied him for a moment, and then she sighed. "No. Who spelled you and why?"

"Your... Your grand-daughter." He laughed a little sheepishly, and when her lips pursed, he held up his hands. "Honest. Well, I think she's like, five grands down from you, but still. She was practicing your teleportation spell. You wrote it down in your journal?" He pressed forward, encouraged by the way she shifted, concern in her eyes. "It didn't work quite the way we thought it would."

Emily rubbed her upper arm, casting a quick glance toward the house. "No one knows that I have a journal," she finally murmured. "Not even Katherine."

"Good. Keep it that way. I just want to go back home, Emily. I'm not here to... do anything. I just want to go home." He leaned back against the nearby tree, sighed, and looked up to the sky. "I'm so tired of lying to everyone here."

"You're from... the future then?" Her frown deepened when he nodded. "I can't break the spell," she finally said, and she held up a hand before Jeremy could protest. "I've been feeling it out since I met you. It's... It is still writing itself, and I can't cast over the spell that's holding you here. My apologies."

"There's nothing at all that you can do? Are you saying that I'm stuck here?" Jeremy slid down to sit in the pine needles. He hadn't really considered the fact that she might not be able to break the spell. He had just assumed that, since she was so powerful, she could do anything.

She knelt down beside him, lightly touching his arm. "I can't right now, no. I can keep an eye on you though, and perhaps I can think of something else to do instead." A very faint smile touched her lips. "I can feel her," she said, and for a moment, Jeremy wasn't sure what she was talking about. "She's so strong."

"Bonnie? You can feel her through the spell?" Jeremy's eyes widened. "Can you tell her to stop?"

Emily looked up at him, and then shook her head. "No, it's not like that. I just... I can sense her. It's not like a connection that I could communicate through." She patted his arm— he supposed it was meant to be comforting. "She must have put too much power behind the spell. It wasn't supposed to do this."

A faint grin curved Jeremy's lips. "I might have baited her a bit," he finally admitted. "Provoked her into proving herself."

"Never a good thing to do with a witch," Emily retorted, and Jeremy nodded.

"Believe me, I know that now." He started laughing. "If I ever make it home... Well, I won't bait her like that again." He sat there until she stood back up. She dusted off her skirt, and she studied him for a moment more.

"I will watch this spell, Mr. Gilbert. You have my word."

Jeremy smiled, and he must have looked pretty pathetic, because she reached out and touched his cheek lightly. He pushed himself up to his feet, nodding. "Thank you," he said, and then she was looking toward the house once more.

"I have to get back."

He nodded again and watched her go, leaning his head back against the tree. He stayed there until the cold was too much, and then he finally headed back in. He walked into his room just as Damon rolled over and reached up, rubbing at his eyes blearily.

"Where were you?" he muttered, and when Jeremy shucked his jacket over the bottom of the bed, Damon touched it with his foot before he shook his head. "Outside? Really? It's too early for that."

"Ready for breakfast? Gotta face the world, Damon." Jeremy purposely kept his voice cheerful, and he pushed a hand through his hair. He was flushed from the cold air outside, and he didn't want Damon asking too many questions about his little trip. He didn't have a suitable cover story yet.

Damon groaned, pushed his face back into the pillow, then sighed and crawled out of the bed. They both headed down to the kitchen. Neither of them cared for eating with everyone else, so Cook already had their plates set aside. They ate in the dining room, well aware that Giuseppe and Stefan and (now) Katherine would be eating either in the breakfast room or their private chambers.

They were walking back upstairs for Jeremy to fetch his charcoal and book when Damon finally asked, "What do you think of Miss Pierce?"

Jeremy closed his eyes briefly, and then he shrugged as he gathered his things. "She seems nice enough," he said carefully, and he smiled a little at Damon's snort.

"Nice enough? Really? She's beautiful."

"Is she?" Jeremy flashed Damon a grin. "I have a sister who looks similarly, so perhaps that's clouding my judgement."

"Oh? I should meet this sister," Damon shot back quickly, and then they were laughing as they headed down the stairs into the sitting room— Jeremy's favorite room to draw in— Jeremy quickly reassuring Damon that no, he was _not_ to meet the sister that looked like Katherine.

"You're not her type anyway," he had just said when they stepped into the room. He felt his amusement fading. Stefan and Katherine were already sitting in there, one of his notebooks in his lap. Katherine offered them all a wide smile.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, her eyes raking over Damon. Jeremy felt himself bristling, uncertain as to _why_. It wasn't like Damon was his to be defensive about, and somehow, seeing her flirt with Stefan didn't spark the same reaction in him. He had been chalking that up to the simple fact that it was like watching Stefan and Elena.

"Morning, Miss Pierce," Damon replied, just as warmly as she had. Jeremy simply smiled, his hand tightening around the small tin with the charcoal. "Are you spending the day with us?"

"Only if you'll have me. You will, won't you? Have me?" She batted her eyes, and Damon exchanged a grin with Stefan.

"Anytime you like."

Jeremy was pretty sure that Damon was thinking of entertaining Katherine in a completely different manner than what they were really talking about. Then it occurred to him that_ that_ was probably what had attracted her to Damon in the first place. He took to her word games with complete ease.

"Jeremy was going to draw some. Would you like to see? He's quite good." Damon looked back over his shoulder toward Jeremy, raising an eyebrow. Jeremy shrugged a little.

"I'm passing fair," he finally said, but there was no way out of it. He took a seat on the small settee beside Katherine, and he opened the sketchpad— he had previously folded all of the pages with sketches of someone other than Damon so that he couldn't embarrass himself in this sort of situation. She ooh'ed and ahh'ed over the pieces, the way any lady of the time might have.

Had she been anyone else, Jeremy would have enjoyed the praise much more. Instead, when she touched his arm, he felt his skin crawl. Finally, when he turned to a blank page, she scurried across the room, taking up a seat across from him.

"Draw me," she said, tilting her head down a little, giggling to herself. "I was planning on having my portrait taken, but this is so much more fun."

Jeremy hesitated, glancing up at Damon. At Damon's nod, he finally put the piece of charcoal to the paper and started. He kept telling himself that it was Elena, sitting across from him with that warm smile, that it was Elena who came over and exclaimed so happily over it.

She pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, and he blushed briefly before he reminded himself that it _wasn't_ Elena. It was Katherine, and she was there to further her own agenda. The rest of them were all expendable.


	6. Rising

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Teen.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Mild references to violence.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 2944 words.  
**Author's Notes**: I freely admit that I played a little fast and loose with the canon timing here. In the show, they have the Founder's Ball during football season (the fall), but in order to comply with a few other scenes, I have pushed the ball up to the early spring. I have also tweaked a few other scenes in order to make this story flow a little better.

**Warning**: _Spoilers_ for season two, episodes eight and on are in this chapter.

**[[ … Chapter Six: Rising … ]]**

The holidays came and went— Damon had gotten him a very fine set of imported pencils; Jeremy had gifted everyone with small charcoal portraits— and Johnathan was still apologizing, still offering excuses for not letting Jeremy move in with him. Jeremy had stopped asking by January, and by the time February rolled around, he was almost looking forward to returning to the front lines. He could get Damon away from Katherine.

The two had become foolishly close, and Damon was beginning to show secret smiles whenever she was mentioned. Jeremy had no doubts that they were sleeping together. The worst part about _that_ was the fact that it had made Jeremy almost wish for the nights when Damon and Giuseppe would butt heads and fight, because on _those_ nights, Damon still came to his room, still slept in his bed.

Jeremy wouldn't have mentioned it to another soul, but he slept better when his bed smelled like Damon. Sadly, that meant each night that Damon spent with Katherine, Jeremy tossed and turned, his head filled with images of them together. He sighed as he straightened his uniform jacket.

"You're not ready yet?"

Jeremy jerked his head up, a faint smile on his lips. "I am whenever you are," he said, cheerfully picking up the kepi of his own that Giuseppe had located for him. He wasn't dependant on stealing Damon's whenever the opportunity arose any longer.

Damon snorted, but he let his bag slide down to the floor just beside where he stood. He cast a glance over his shoulder down the hall, then stepped into the room. "You don't have to go back," he finally said quietly, his eyes narrowing over Jeremy's shoulder.

Jeremy instinctively shook his head. "Of course I do," he said, and as though to prove the point, he purposely put his pack on the injured shoulder. It hurt, but not as bad as it could have. He drew a slow breath to keep from wincing. "Unless you're having second thoughts?"

"You're not eighteen, Jeremy," Damon said, crossing the room and pulling the bag from Jeremy's shoulder. Idiot that Jeremy was, he couldn't stop himself from smiling when he noticed that Damon was still wearing the Vervain bracelet. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No, Damon. Of course not." Jeremy sighed and schooled his expression before he looked back up. "I thought you'd dropped this. I'm eighteen. I can fight for my country just as well as you can."

Damon hesitated, and he took another step toward Jeremy. It took everything in Jeremy not to step back in a vain attempt to maintain the distance in between them. "Jer..." Damon reached up, his hand stilling for just a moment before he finally let it rest on Jeremy's good shoulder. "If something happens to you—"

"It doesn't matter." Jeremy lifted his chin, arching an eyebrow. "I'm not about to desert, Damon. I wasn't even supposed to come back with you to begin with." Not that anyone would miss him since he had never enlisted. "Come on. Let's get on the road." He grabbed his pack, ducked under Damon's arm, and headed toward the door.

They made it all the way to the front door before Giuseppe stopped them. He was waiting for them, a small stack of papers in his hand.

"Leave was extended," he said curtly. "Both of you should go change."

He didn't offer them any further explanation, just slipped back into his study, and Damon and Jeremy were left staring after him. They exchanged looks, and finally started trudging back up the stairs.

"Why was our leave extended?" Jeremy asked curiously, and Damon shrugged, already peeling the jacket off. No doubt so that he could spend the day with Katherine, Jeremy mused.

"Who cares? We don't have to go back. That means we will be attending the Founder's Ball." Damon grinned widely, and Jeremy, for just a moment, found himself caught up in his enthusiasm. He would get to see the first ball, get to meet all of the original founding families. It was the chance of a lifetime.

Or not, given that it looked as though he wouldn't ever be heading home. He sighed, locked his room door, and changed back out of the uniform and into his regular clothes. After a minute, he folded it and tucked it in the bottom of his pack, with the letters from the poor deserter that he'd taken the bag from. His fingers lingered over the stack; then he shook his head, checked his pockets for Vervain— he _really_ wished he had a second bracelet— and sat on the edge of the bed.

He stayed there until he heard a quiet knock, and he briefly considered not answering before he stood. He forced a smile as he met Katherine's smile. She stepped into the room, not waiting for his invitation, shutting the door behind her.

"I heard that you and Damon will be staying a little longer." She walked the length of the room, glancing at everything except for Jeremy himself. He sighed, not feeling up to playing her game. He was _so_ sick of lying, of dodging her every chance he got, of avoiding looking at her even. He sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Get out, Katherine," he muttered, reaching up to rub his face. He just wanted to sleep.

She scowled and moved to stand in front of him. "Who are you really, Mr. Gilbert?" She bent down to peer into his face, and as her eyes narrowed to pinpricks, he simply snorted.

"You don't want to try that," he popped off. He felt a shiver down his back, but he ignored it. He had been walking on glass as far as she was concerned, and he couldn't do it. Jeremy needed just a few days away from everything, even a single day without the constant threat of death looming over him. He stood, his own eyes narrowing sharply. "I know what you are, Katherine."

She went perfectly still, and he watched as she tried to figure out how, tried to pinpoint what might have given her away. "What are you talking about?"

"You're a vampire," he said smoothly, a small smile quirking his mouth. "Got Damon drinking your blood already. Too bad you'll have to compel Stefan, isn't it?"

Her hand was around his throat before he saw her move, and as he reached up instinctively, his fingers digging into the fleshy part of her hand, he realized how bizarre it was to see those dark eyes, the fangs, the entire vampire _look_ on Elena's face. She pulled him closer to her, breathing in deeply, looking for something.

"You're human," she murmured, and Jeremy managed a faint smile even through the yellows and reds beginning to burst over his eyes. "So easy to break." Her other hand lifted and trailed the backs of her fingers down the side of Jeremy's face.

"What do you think Damon will do without his dear army friend to keep him company? It will be so sad, watching him realize that you marched off to war anyway, don't you think?" She leaned down, and for one terrible moment, Jeremy was scared that she was going to kiss him. She did, but on his forehead, and her grip tightened.

He coughed, struggling to get enough air into his throat to speak. When her grip relaxed slightly, he spat out, "Elijah will know."

Her eyes widened, and her grip lightened a fraction more. "What?"

"If I die, Elijah will know. He'll come for you." It was a desperate claim based on theories that none of them had been able to confirm yet, but from the wash of anger on Katherine's face, Jeremy was damned certain that they had hit the nail on the head. Her hand squeezed tighter.

"Liar," she hissed. "He doesn't know where I am. Elijah _doesn't know_."

She kept talking, kept insisting on that, kept asking him questions, but he couldn't focus, couldn't feel anything beyond the pain in his throat. He was pretty sure that he could _hear_ his trachea crushing under the pressure that she was putting on it. Finally, blackness swallowed him, and he drifted.

It was blessedly quiet.

He woke to the cold, his eyes blinking against the midday sun. Sighing, he sat up, reached for his own throat, and closed his eyes for just a minute before he pushed himself up to his feet. He leaned back against the nearest tree, tilting his head back to look at the sky. He could still feel her fingers against his throat.

The pressure was still there as well, still trying to soffacate him, but with the sun shining down and the crisp air blowing past him, Jeremy found that he didn't care. Katherine had declared war. He shook himself, grabbed his bag that had been abandoned nearby— Katherine was a stickler for the details— and started walking back.

He was whistling the whole way, a peace he could ever remember knowing draped over him. He managed to get back into the house without anyone seeing, and he left the pack poking out from under the foot of the bed. He changed into a higher collared shirt— a feeble attempt to hide the bruises— and drew a good, fortifying breath before he headed down to the study.

Mr. Salvatore was in town at this time of day, and Jeremy glanced out the window as he rifled through the desk, looking for... something. Anything. He was sick of drifting, of not being certain what was happening. It was important for him to know why Giuseppe hadn't wanted them to return, why he had turned both of them into deserters. After all, Jeremy's leave couldn't have been extended; he didn't exist.

He found a small stack of papers, but before he could go through them, he heard a noise from the hall. Immediately, he shoved the papers into one of his pockets, and he had just gotten over to one of the bookcases when Damon stepped in. Jeremy smiled at him, pulling a book from the shelf.

"Jeremy. I've been looking for you." Damon was frowning, and Jeremy tilted his head curiously.

"Have you?" He flipped open the book, his eyes not focusing as he glanced at it. "I haven't left."

Damon hesitated, and then he shut the study door and walked over to Jeremy. "I thought you might have," he finally said quietly. He took the book out of Jeremy's hands, putting it back on the shelf. "I... Your bag was gone."

Jeremy folded his arms over his chest, and he licked his bottom lip. "It's under my bed, Damon. Where it always is. What is this about?"

Another step, and Damon was almost uncomfortably close to Jeremy, but his eyes had narrowed and his frown was deepening. He reached up without warning and pulled Jeremy's collar down. Jeremy sighed, looking up toward the ceiling. He'd let himself forget just how impulsive Damon really was.

"Are those bruises? Who did this?" Damon was almost aggressive as he crowded Jeremy a little more, his fingers sliding over the bruises.

Jeremy shook his head, but he knew better than to fight this. He had to let Damon step back on his own accord, or Damon would only pursue the issue more. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Did _he_ do this?"

Jeremy's mouth went dry, and he quickly shook his head. "No, Damon, it's fine. It wasn't him." The last thing that he wanted was for Damon to pick an even worse fight with his father based on injuries caused by someone else. "I am handling it." He offered Damon a smile. "What were you talking about this morning? A Founder's Ball?"

Damon raised an eyebrow, clearly aware that it was a pathetic attempt to change the subject, and he gave Jeremy a look that informed him that they were no where near done with that conversation. But he did at least indulge Jeremy for the moment. "It's something that my father and Mister Lockwood thought of. A celebration for the town, hosted by the founding families."

"Oh, that sounds nice." Jeremy glanced back at the books, wondering if there was even anything in the study wasn't in Italian. He doubted it, given Giuseppe's clear affection for the language.

"Nice indeed. You and I will be attending by decree of my father."

A small grin touched Jeremy's lips. "Katherine is going with Stefan?"

Damon sighed loudly, which was more answer than Jeremy needed. His grin widened.

"Well, that's for the best, isn't it? I hear he's a better dancer than you." He laughed when Damon lightly punched his arm— good shoulder only. "What? Ladies talk, Damon."

"How well do _you_ dance?"

Jeremy paled, and he quickly shook his head. "I don't. Never learned how."

Out of all the possible reactions Damon could have given him, he wasn't prepared for Damon to laugh and hold out his hand. "Come on," Damon said, a smile finally lighting his face. "I'll teach you. Well, I'll teach you what they'll be doing at the ball. It's hardly anything difficult." When Jeremy hesitated, Damon wiggled his fingers. "Don't trust me?"

Jeremy felt like he was in some kind of fairy tale. Cinderella perhaps, although he couldn't remember someone having to teach _her_ how to dance. Damon finally leaned forward and took Jeremy's hand, pulling him away from the bookshelf. Jeremy, realizing that Damon was being completely serious, blushed darkly.

"You're going to teach me the right part of the dance, aren't you?" Jeremy laughed, attempting to cover how strange the entire situation felt to him. "I don't want to be embarassed because I only know the ladies' steps or whatever."

Damon's grin widened, but he shook his head. "I wouldn't do that," but there was enough amusement in his face that Jeremy wondered if he had just put the idea into Damon's head. "Who do you think taught Stefan to dance?" He tugged Jeremy a little closer.

"You know I have nothing to wear to this thing, right? Teaching me to dance is useless." Jeremy was protesting more for the sake of protesting than anything else. Damon was already showing him how to stand properly, and Jeremy obediently stayed wherever Damon put him. It was easier than trying to get away.

"Nonsense. Father is having something made for you to wear. He ordered it when he ordered mine and Stefan's. Now, stop arguing."

Just as Damon stepped back to study him, the door burst open, Katherine calling, "Damon! Damon, dearest—" She stopped midsentence when she saw Jeremy, and he offered her a smile.

"Miss Pierce," he said warmly, arching an eyebrow at her. He let his arms drop to his sides. Emily was staring at him with the same look of shock that Katherine wore, and for exactly one minute, Jeremy basked in the fact that he had outplayed her. Then Katherine swallowed— Jeremy watched her throat work— and she pasted a smile on her face.

"Mr. Gilbert... are you practicing for the ball?" She recovered quickly, stepping close to him. "Would you like a partner to practice with?" She batted her eyes, and Jeremy glanced past her toward Emily.

"No, I was just finishing up. You could help polish Damon's skills though." He shot a quick look at Damon, who blushed very lightly at the idea.

"My skills are just fine. You're the one who doesn't know how to dance."

Jeremy laughed. "Well, let's hope I don't have to; I would fear for the lady's safety. Thank you for the lesson, Damon." He bowed and excused himself from the room, needing a minute to recover. With the pleasure fading, fear was rapidly replacing it, and he could feel his hands beginning to shake. He leaned against the rail of the stairway, catching his breath, trying to keep calm.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he scowled at Emily the moment he realized who it was. "What are you doing?" He whispered, quietly as he could, and they both looked back toward the door to the study. Emily shook her head and tugged him to the door.

They stepped outside, crossing the yard as quickly as they could. Another look toward the house, and then Emily hissed, "What happened?"

"Katherine... tried to kill me," Jeremy whispered back, rubbing his arm instinctively. "She choked me this morning." He didn't offer any further explanation, and finally, Emily nodded.

"She thought she had killed you. But no, the spell. The spell is rebuilding itself. How long ago did she try?"

Jeremy shrugged. "A few hours. It was this morning. What do you mean the spell is rebuilding itself?"

Emily bit her bottom lip. "It was weaker when I first sensed you this morning. Must have been when you were coming back to the house." She reached out and touched his arm, her fingertips dragging over the white fabric of his sleeve. "Her attempt to kill you must weaken it."

"So if she does it again, you can undo the spell? Was it weak enough for you to cast over it?" Jeremy grabbed her arm, his eyes widening.

She nodded. "I think so."

Jeremy sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He would have to provoke Katherine into killing him again, and this time, he'd have to be sure that it was somewhere that Emily could locate him, could cast her spell openly. He couldn't put Emily at any more risk than he already had.

"I might have a plan," he murmured.


	7. Planning

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Teen.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Kissing, mild references to violence, underage (sixteen year old) drinking.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 2761 words.**  
**

**[[ … Chapter Seven: Planning … ]]**

It wasn't until he undressed that he even remembered the papers that he had stolen from the study. He smoothed them out as best that he could, his eyes widening as he skimmed through them. Most of them were private correspondence, and while it hadn't bothered him before, it seemed a little rude to be reading it now that he knew Giuseppe as a person and not simply a historical figure.

A crash from downstairs, and Jeremy discovered that his moral high ground slipped away much more easily than he expected. He read through everything quickly as he could, and stashed the entire stack of paper in the back of his sketchbook. He moved to sit on the top stair just outside of his room, trying to sort through everything he'd read.

It did at least explain why Giuseppe hadn't wanted either of them to return to the war. The Third Conscription Act had been issued, extending the conscription to include men ages seventeen to fifty. That meant Stefan, and possible Giuseppe himself, although Jeremy couldn't be sure. Had Damon returned to the fight, he'd have discovered that and been forced to mention his younger brother. Giuseppe was protecting Stefan. Jeremy blew out a breath, reached up to rub a hand over the side of his face, and stood at the sound of the door being thrown open.

Damon stormed out, shouting, and Giuseppe wasn't far behind him, actually reaching for him right there in the middle of the walk way. He stopped the moment that he saw Jeremy, and Jeremy checked Damon's face before giving Giuseppe the best go-to-hell expression that he had ever managed. It probably wasn't a good plan, given that he was still living under the man's roof, but Jeremy couldn't let that stop him.

He didn't even have to guide Damon to his room. It had become such a frequent thing that Damon simply went there on his own. Damon peeled off his own boots this time, pulling his legs up until his knees were against his chest. Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed just beside him, wished that there was more he could do, and simply reached out to touch Damon's arm.

Damon grabbed his hand, and before Jeremy could protest, had moved so that he was holding Jeremy, his arms wrapped tightly around Jeremy's middle. Jeremy closed his eyes, and he patted Damon's arm. He wanted to comfort, wanting to _help_ somehow, but everything seemed ridiculously understated. Damon didn't seem to care though, he simply buried his face in the crook of Jeremy's shoulder.

If Jeremy let himself think about it, _really_ let himself think about it, he knew that Damon's attachment to him was unusual, but as it stood, he couldn't let himself think about it. He needed the touch just as much as Damon needed it. Then Damon had pulled back and his fingers slid against the bruises on Jeremy's neck. Self-consciously, Jeremy pulled his shirt up, trying to dislodge Damon's hand.

He should have known better— did know better. Within only moments, Damon had pushed him down against the bed and pulled his head to one side, so that he could look more easily. Jeremy squirmed for only a minute before sighing and letting Damon look, trying not to focus on just how close Damon really was to him, on the feel of Damon trapping him so neatly.

"Who did this?" Damon's voice was low, and Jeremy closed his eyes, fighting the urge to just _tell_ him.

"I have it under control, Damon," Jeremy replied wearily. He didn't look at Damon, not even when his head was tilted to face him. That was why he didn't see it coming, couldn't stop Damon from upsetting himself. One minute, he was sighing, wishing that he could tell Damon _everything_, and the next, there was a warmth against his mouth, the faintest trace of tongue.

He melted into it, _wanting_ it more than he could admit, and Damon's hand slid around to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Jeremy made a low noise into the kiss, and when that touch was gone, his eyes slid open. Damon dropped him back against the bed, leaning back, his fingers touching his bottom lip. His eyes widened, and then he was scrabbling off of the bed.

Jeremy reached for him, caught his sleeve, but Damon jerked away from him. "Damon! Damon, wait!" But the door was open and Damon was gone. Jeremy fell back against the bed, reaching up and pressing his fist against his forehead. "Stupid, stupid," he muttered, and he waited for only a moment before he got up and shut the door.

He slid down, his back against it, and folded his arms over the tops of his knees. There was no sense in chasing after Damon, not if he was having the kind of crisis that Jeremy was pretty damned certain he was having. If anything, Damon would run harder toward Katherine now, reassuring himself of his own sexuality. Jeremy licked his bottom lip, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"Shit," he whispered, and then he couldn't stop the tears. He stayed right there on the floor, crying until he didn't have anything left, until he was a shaking mess, his throat tight and aching. He finally leaned over, hissed because he put too much weight on his shoulder, and then rolled to lay on his back.

The next few days— days or weeks?— were a blur. It seemed like the entire world had simply forgotten that Jeremy Gilbert even existed, and truthfully, the world was well within its rights. He wouldn't even be born for another hundred and thirty or whatever years. Damon didn't come by to see him, Giuseppe was clearly pretending that Jeremy had never even entered the house, and Stefan was as smitten with Katherine as Damon was.

By the time the Founder's Ball came around, Jeremy was tempted to not even go. It wasn't as though anyone would notice. He pulled on the suit tailored for him though, and as he studied himself in the small mirror he had, he found himself reaching up to touch his hair. It was longer than normal, although he'd gotten Damon to cut it just before their little ... hell, he didn't even know what to call it.

He brushed it back as best he could and checked for any traces of the bruises. Satisfied that there weren't any, he grabbed the hat that accompanied the suit. He didn't miss the fact that Damon wasn't waiting for him, and he muttered under his breath as he headed toward the Lockwood house alone.

Johnathan was at the front door when Jeremy arrived, and he hesitated before he stopped to greet his ancestor. The man was flustered, and Jeremy's eyes narrowed on the watch in his hand. The vampire detector. A smile touched his lips.

"Is that one of your inventions?" He leaned close, raising an eyebrow.

Johnathan hesitated, and then he leaned close. "Has Giuseppe told you then?"

"Of course not. He still doesn't trust his own sons with it, let alone me." Jeremy sighed. "But I'm not a fool. I know the signs, Uncle John." He held out a hand, and Johnathan quickly put the watch in it after casting another quick look around them. Jeremy flipped it over, then glanced back at the needle, which was spinning wildly.

"I'm not certain what it means, but it's detecting something." Johnathan leaned over his shoulder.

"Clearly." Jeremy handed it back with a small smile. "Perhaps there are too many for it to narrow down further. Is there a plan yet?" Johnathan started to say something, then stopped himself, and Jeremy's smile widened before he pulled a small piece of dried Vervain from his pocket. "I'm human, Uncle. Never fear."

"Can't be too careful," Johnathan muttered, and then he nodded slightly. "There is a plan. Come by the house tomorrow? We can discuss it then."

Jeremy nodded, then bowed. "Until tomorrow. Noon?" When Johnathan nodded, Jeremy smiled and headed on into the house. He offered his polite greeting to the hosts, signed the original Founder's Ball paper— that would be something fun to look at if he ever got home— and reached for the first glass of anything that even resembled alcohol.

It was sweeter than he liked, but he drained the glass all the same, ditched it on a table, and found another. He had almost finished it when he felt something cold wash down his spine.

"You shouldn't be drinking it that quickly."

Jeremy rolled his eyes and turned up the glass. Confident that he was sufficiently braced, he turned around and smiled as warmly as he could to Damon. "Oh, so... you do remember who I am. I thought you might have forgotten, given that you haven't spoken to me since—"

"Not here, Jeremy." Damon's frown was serious enough that Jeremy wondered if something had happened. Then he looked over Damon's shoulder, and he pursed his lips before he nodded slowly.

"Sick of watching Katherine dance with Stefan?" He set the glass down, wondering if he could grab another. He hadn't realized just how much he missed the pleasantly warm sensation that alcohol put in his belly. He was aware that picking a fight with Damon on what Elena had described as 'the worst night of his life' was probably a dumb idea, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

It wasn't like the night was any better for him, after all.

"Did you drink before you got here?"

Jeremy snorted. "Wasn't that smart. Is that George Lockwood?" Jeremy nodded toward the young man trying to steal Katherine away from Stefan. Damon cast a quick look, then nodded and turned his attention back to Jeremy.

"Don't change the subject."

"Damon, don't worry about it." Jeremy reached out and lightly patted Damon's shoulder, plastering his very best— maybe his second best— smile. "It happened, you didn't like it, no harm done. Just..." He glanced across the room toward Katherine, hoping, _praying_ that she was involved enough in her conversation that she wasn't listening it. "... Don't worry about it. ... Think I've been here long enough that your father won't get annoyed if I leave?"

Damon sighed. "Not hardly. Let's make the rounds."

They did, greeting and smiling and flirting outrageously with everything in a skirt in the room. It was like they both had something to prove to one another, and Jeremy didn't let himself linger on it. He didn't let himself remember the feel of Damon pressed against him, didn't let himself remember the _taste_ that had lingered for hours. Instead, he focused on the pain in his chest, the fact that this was the first time Damon had spoken to him since.

It was easy enough to stay mad.

By the time it was _finally_ over, Damon made their excuses, and they went home together. Jeremy wished that they hadn't, because he was in a mood. He would have sneaked into the study, taken plenty of Giuseppe's best, and gotten completely wasted. He didn't even care that he would have had little control over what he said after that. As smashed as he was planning on being, no one would have been able to understand him anyway.

But Damon wasn't having any of it. Instead, they ended up in Damon's room, Jeremy laying face-first in the bed as Damon pulled off his boots. It was a nice change of pace. He buried his face in the pillow, breathing in as deeply as he dared. He wanted the scent to linger long after Damon was sick of him and threw him out. The bed sank when Damon sat beside him, and Jeremy didn't move.

"Jeremy?"

"What?" He was muffled into the pillow, but he was pretty sure that Damon could understand him anyway. He wasn't planning on moving until he had to anyway.

Damon drew a breath— didn't need vampire hearing to hear _that_— and he reached out, his hand heavy on Jeremy's shoulder. "I didn't think—"

"You never think. Just act." Jeremy sighed as he pushed himself up. His fingers lingered over the pillow though, and he wondered if there was a way for him to smuggle it out. If he were a girl, he could just throw a fit and storm out with it in hand, but he felt strange considering that option.

Damon nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "It's true."

"Don't do this, Damon." Jeremy crawled off of the bed then, sighing as he realized that he hadn't taken his suit jacket off beforehand. "I should have seen it coming." He straightened his jacket and waved a hand before he headed toward the door. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

He didn't wait for Damon's response before he practically ran back to his own room. As much as he was itching for the confrontation, he couldn't do it. Not knowing that he'd probably still have to face Damon back in his own time, assuming he could even manage to get Katherine to kill him again with Emily close enough to do her thing. He figured he only had one more chance before Katherine figured out it was his ring keeping him alive.

Jeremy fell into his bed, reaching immediately for the set of pencils, for his sketchbook. After just a moment, he opened the book to the last page. All of the papers he'd stolen from Giuseppe were there— he wondered idly if Giuseppe even noticed that they were missing yet— and he set those to the side. He stared at the back of the last page for a few more minutes, and then he hesitantly flipped forward a few pages and put the pencil to the page.

He spent the entire night writing. By the time he had to go meet Johnathan, he could understand why Elena and Stefan did it. It was strangely lifting, being able to simply write the _truth_, especially since he couldn't tell anyone here anything.

Johnathan was waiting for him at the front door, but Jeremy noticed that Johnathan didn't invite him in. He simply held the door open. Jeremy raised an eyebrow as he stepped through. "I thought we confirmed this last night," he said vaguely as he walked into the main sitting room.

"Just making certain. Doesn't hurt." Johnathan smiled at him, and they both sat across from one another. Johnathan fidgeted for a minute more, and then he finally asked, "What do you think of the Salvatore brothers?"

Jeremy hesitated, for a moment thinking of Katherine, and then he shrugged. "As vampire hunters?"

Johnathan glanced around the room and nodded jerkily.

"They're loyal enough," Jeremy finally said quietly. "Why? What exactly is your plan?"

"Lockwood came up with the plan. Well, Lockwood and Giuseppe. You know where Fell's Church is?" Johnathan waited just long enough for Jeremy to nod, "Well, we're going to round up the vampires, one at a time, lock them in, and burn it."

"How will you keep them in the church?" Jeremy leaned forward, genuinely curious. The plan was a solid one, and he already knew for a fact that it would work. He was just a little fuzzy on the _how_.

Johnathan offered him a little grin. "I have created curtains for the windows that are soaked in Vervain, and the night before we do this, Honoria Fell has agreed to have her girls mop with Vervain water. That should be enough to keep them down if we can get a little Vervain inside of them."

Another nod, and Jeremy leaned back in his seat. "That's... quite brilliant actually."

"Elegant, isn't it? We even have muzzles for once we get them captured, so that they can't bite anyone else." Johnathan leaned over and pulled a small box from the nearby table. He held it out, and Jeremy opened it slowly.

His stomach sank at the sight of something so clearly sized for a human face. He couldn't stop himself from imagining one on Damon, and he quickly closed it. He pasted another smile on his face. "Clever."

Silence fell between them, and as Jeremy handed the box back, scarcely able to touch it, Johnathan tilted his head a little to one side. "Jeremy?"

"Yessir?"

"How did you know about them?"

Jeremy smiled again. He couldn't let himself think; not about Katherine or Pearl or Damon. He had to stay focused on getting home. "I'm a Gilbert."


	8. Running

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Mature.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Violence, character death.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 3135 words.  
**Author's Notes**: Ah, my apologies for the delay between chapters seven and eight! I wasn't expecting this chapter to be so draining when I started writing it. On the plus side, I don't believe there will be too many more delays with the last two chapters. Hard to believe that this journey is almost over.

**[[ … Chapter Eight: Running … ]]**

It was only a few days later that the plan was put in motion. Jeremy was at Johnathan's when the sheriff came by. They had just finished packing the muzzles— Jeremy was still struggling to keep his nausea down at the sight of them— and the stakes. The sheriff was already passing out the wooden bullets, and Jeremy accepted his handful with shaking fingertips. Johnathan had given him a revolver earlier, which Jeremy had quickly stashed in a pocket.

"Lockwood wants us to begin immediately. I've already started rounding up the men."

Jeremy and Johnathan exchanged looks, and Jeremy offered a small smile. "I'll go fetch the Salvatores then." He didn't wait for an answer, just slipped out the door and started walking. He could see the first of the cages already being washed down with Vervain water, and he shuddered before he turned toward the Salvatore house. He glanced at the apothecary when he walked by, and he felt his breathing steady when he realized that Pearl and Anna weren't there.

Perhaps they'd already left.

He snorted at his own foolishness— he _knew_ that Pearl got caught— and he pulled his jacket a little closer around himself. He could still faintly hear the men back at the Gilbert house, laughing and joking in spite of what they were about to do. They weren't true believers.

They thought the entire thing was a game. He felt sick at the thought of what they might do during their 'game.' It was cruelty, no matter how it was sliced, because at the heart of it a single fact remained: Vampires were people. They felt pain and had emotions, even if they were capable of turning them off. He put a hand to his chest, trying to calm his heart. He could afford to be so sensitive, not and keep himself safe.

By the time he reached the house, it was dark, and Stefan was running out of the house, blood staining the collar of his white shirt. Jeremy caught him as he ran blindly down the road, and he stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Jeremy could hear the slightly 'clip-clop' of horses' hooves coming up the street behind him.

"Stefan, breathe. What happened?" He shook Stefan's shoulders, trying to make Stefan look up at him. "Stefan!" He could smell the alcohol coming off of Stefan, and he realized in the space of a heartbeat what had happened.

Stefan looked up at him, eyes glassy, and whispered, "Katherine. Father ... he tricked me."

"Made you drink Vervain." Jeremy closed his eyes, nodded, and pushed Stefan toward the oncoming men. "Get them, pretend to be on their side," he said quickly, and just as he started toward the house, he heard a rustle from the other side of the path. He cast a look toward the men, and then he slipped over there. He ran straight into Pearl, and his breath caught as he saw Annabelle clinging to her skirts.

They stood there, staring at one another for several minutes, and Jeremy could hear the men charging into the Salvatore house. Any moment, and they would be dragging Katherine out, and he was certain that Damon would come out fighting shortly after. He swallowed, and he held up his hands. He needed control of the situation, needed Pearl to trust him.

"Miss Pearl, wait." He reached out and grabbed her arm, and she hissed before jerking herself away from him. "Pearl, I know. I _know_ what you are."

She went completely still, and her eyes widened. Jeremy released her, holding up his hands again, trying to look as disarming as possible. He must not have succeeded, because her pupils still narrowed to pinpricks. He frowned at her and slowly reached into his pocket to pull out a small piece of Vervain. She hissed again, but she didn't bare fangs. Not yet.

"We don't have time for this. Listen, you didn't steal the right thing from Johnathan. You didn't take the vampire hunting device." He looked back over his shoulder, and he blew out a breath. "You have to get Anna out of here."

Her eyes narrowed, and Pearl glanced down toward the girl beside her before she nodded. "We need horses," she finally said, and Jeremy nodded. He couldn't let her get them, couldn't let her spend the next hundred years under the church starving to death.

He touched her arm, and something passed between them, an understanding perhaps. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He probably would never see her again. "Get Harper and Emily," he told her, and then he plowed back into the fray, pushing through the men struggling to get Katherine far enough back in the cage that they could fit a few more bodies inside. Jeremy didn't look at her. He couldn't bear to see Elena's face with that damned muzzle on.

The screaming was horrific, and everyone ran blindly from the men with guns, Johnathan leading the way, vampire compass in hand. Katherine was finally secured in the cage, and Jeremy saw Damon and Stefan arguing before Damon stormed off. Jeremy felt his heart twist, and then he was focused on the horses. He only needed two; Anna could ride double with her mother if necessary, and Emily couldn't leave Mystic Falls.

He swallowed back a bitter taste. Emily had to be burned at the stake in a few years, once someone finally figured out that she was a witch. She would have to make a deal with Damon somehow, in order to secure her family's future. Jeremy would figure that out later.

"Jeremy!"

He nearly dropped the reins he'd unhooked, and he turned to scowl at Johnathan. "You scared me," he muttered, even as he went back to the horses. "Need these. We have some runners." Jeremy shrugged and hoisted himself up onto one of them. He tugged on the reins of the second one. "I'll be back when we get these locked up."

"Jeremy," Johnathan stopped him, a hand lightly resting on Jeremy's knee. "You do your family proud," he said quietly, and Jeremy managed a smile before he stirred the horse into a trot, dislodging his ancestor's hand. A few months ago, he might have been proud of those words, might have been pleasantly honored at the knowledge that Johnathan would surely mention him in the journals. Now, all he could think about was the fact that so many were going to die.

He could hardly keep the horse under control, with his own nerves and the fear spiking in the back of his throat and the thoughts flying through his head, but Damon's teaching was solid. He somehow navigated the beast over to where Pearl and Annabelle and Harper and Emily were all waiting. He slid down off of the first horse and handed Harper the reins.

"Your hoops, Miss Pearl," he said quickly, and she nodded before she hiked her skirt up and began unhooking them. They would be too unweildy to wear on the horse, considering how fast they would have to travel. Anna didn't need any prompting, just followed her mother's lead. Soon as they could, Harper and Jeremy helped Pearl onto the horse, draping her skirts carefully down the side, and then they got Anna up behind her. Jeremy's hand lingered over Anna's, and he smiled up at her.

"I'm not lost anymore, Anna," he whispered, and he laughed at the confusion on her face. She wouldn't know what he was talking about. She hadn't told him yet that she liked the 'lost' guys. Then he handed his revolver off to Harper. "Keep them safe. You have six wooden bullets in there."

Harper offered him a salute, and Jeremy returned it before he watched them go. Soon as he was convinced that they would get away, he grabbed Emily's hand. "Are you ready?" he asked, and she nodded quickly. He smiled, trying to look calm and confident. "If _anyone_ asks, Katherine kept you confused."

Emily's smile looked a great deal calmer than Jeremy's probably did. "I know what to say," she assured him, and then they were running. Screams and shots and shouting filled the air around them, but they stuck close to the cage. Emily didn't stop to ask Jeremy what he was doing, and he was grateful. He supposed that she thought he knew what was going to happen, but truthfully, he had no clue. He did know that at some point, Damon and Stefan would come for Katherine. They would come, they would be shot by their father, and they would die.

Jeremy's hand was shaking in Emily's, and she did her best to keep him calm, squeezing his hand reassuringly and smiling any time that he looked back at her. It didn't really help, but he appreciated the thought. He just wished that he had more details.

It finally happened on the cage's way back toward the church. Jeremy bit his knuckle to keep from calling out when he saw Damon and Stefan, both of them desperately pulling Katherine from the cage, stopping long enough to get the muzzle off of her. The gunshots stopped Jeremy's heart.

He bit down harder, and he blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Damon went down first, and Jeremy actually tried to run toward him. Emily pushed him down in the bushes that they were hidden in, and Jeremy couldn't stop the tears, couldn't stop himself from sobbing into the dried leaves and dirt. He shoved the back of his fist into his mouth, stifling the scream bubbling up in his throat.

His heart _ached_, his throat was tight, and so help him, when Stefan went down as well, Jeremy broke. It was a flood of sobs that he had no control over, and Emily finally grabbed a handful of her skirt to push into his mouth to keep him quiet. Giuseppe walked over their bodies— he _walked. Over. Them._— and snorted before he forced Katherine back into the cage. There was a crack of a whip, and then the cage started moving again.

Damon and Stefan were both completely still, and when Emily _finally_ let Jeremy go, he raced over to them. Damon was laying flat on his back, eyes blank and glassy as they stared up at the night sky. Blood was caked around his lips, and Jeremy gently pushed his hair back from his face. He buried his head against Damon's chest, doing his best not to cry even more now that he had Damon in his arms.

"Tell me," Jeremy ignored how his voice cracked, "that Katherine was feeding them both." He lifted his eyes to Emily, who was kneeling over Stefan. She stilled, and then she nodded very slowly. Jeremy blew out the breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding. It was the first good news that he'd had since he'd been dropped back in 1863. He hauled Damon up into his arms, and— Damon was a lot heavier than he _looked_— stumbled off of the road. He had to drag Stefan, even with Emily's help.

He left them all on the side of the road, hidden in a ditch, and he ran back toward the Salvatore house. No one was there, and he was grateful as he stole yet another pair of horses. He didn't meet a soul on the road, and when the blaze of the church lit the sky, Jeremy stopped just long enough to send up a quiet prayer for those caught in it. Emily hadn't been there to save them; she was still with the Salvatore brothers.

Jeremy got back to them as quickly as he could, and, with Emily's help, got Damon draped over one horse and Stefan over the other. He gently assisted Emily to ride on the horse with Stefan, and as soon as she was squared away, he pulled himself onto the other one. He couldn't stop himself from touching Damon's back, from reassuring himself that Damon was real and while he was dead _now_, he'd be moving around again soon.

Emily led the way, although, if Jeremy was completely honest with himself, he didn't pay attention in the slightest to where they went. He just knew that there was a small house on the edge of the lake, and that Emily dropped from the horse as soon as they hit the clearing. Jeremy helped her carry Stefan and Damon into the house. He stopped and glanced across the lake, where he could see the church still burning. The screams had finally stopped.

"They weren't in pain long," Emily murmured, smoothing out her skirt as she stood beside him.

Jeremy nodded slowly. The burning process had been sped up by Vervain wood in the church, so most of the vampires had probably died fairly quickly. Considering they'd been burned to death, at least. Emily touched his hand again, and Jeremy let her. He couldn't feel anything, and he wasn't surprised. He felt as though he'd been on a rollercoaster.

"You should take the horses back. If I'm caught with them, I could be hanged." When Jeremy hesitated, looking back toward the small house, Emily smiled at him. "They won't wake for a few hours. You have time."

Jeremy blushed, and when Emily motioned toward the horses, he sighed and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured, and she laughed. Too late, he realized that it would be more mocking than anything in this time period. He rubbed the back of his neck, then he climbed back onto one of the horses. Emily handed him the reins to the other one, and he turned back toward the Salvatore house.

He arrived just as Johnathan and Giuseppe did, and he offered them both the best smile that he could manage. For once, he was grateful for the numbness coating him. They both looked so pleased with their success from the night that Jeremy was certain that he would have hit at least one of them had he been in a more normal frame of mind.

"Wonderful hunting tonight. We killed twenty-five!" Johnathan's smile was genuine, and Jeremy tilted his head a little, wondering how long it would take him to realize that Pearl was gone. He kept flipping open the watch and closing it again, as though to confirm that they really had gotten all of them. "How many did you get, Jeremy?"

"Enough. ... Twenty-five vampires, really? How did you manage to get twenty-five in this town to begin with?" Jeremy raised an eyebrow, and he snorted when Giuseppe tried to protest. "Don't even," he said quickly, not caring that he was cutting off his host. Giuseppe would be getting his soon enough. "Have you thought of how to document this?"

They all three headed inside the house, and Johnathan glanced quickly toward Giuseppe. "We thought we would blame a Confederate regiment for firing on the church. Battle of Willow Creek."

"We will, of course, be documenting the loss of civilian life," Giuseppe interjected, and his eyes were narrowed as he studied Jeremy.

Jeremy simply raised an eyebrow as he fell into one of the chairs in the study. Giuseppe poured drinks for everyone, but Jeremy shook his head. "How many did we lose?"

"Seventeen." Johnathan glanced up toward Giuseppe, then ammended it to, "Nineteen." He opened the large book that he had brought, and Giuseppe handed him a pen. "I will be certain to keep an accurate count."

"The battle of Willow Creek." A wry smile twisted Jeremy's lips. He couldn't help but wonder how many other 'battles' had been recorded and falsified to cover up a different sort of tragedy. "So the final count of civilian deaths will be thirty-nine?"

"Those were hardly civilians—"

"He's correct." Giuseppe sighed as he drained his glass, then poured another. "We will count the demons as civilians for the sake of the archives. Your words will endure the test of time, Johnathan. They must be believable."

Johnathan bowed his head.

"Although, certain details can be kept only in this room." Giuseppe took another long drink, and Johnathan's pen stopped in mid-sentence. Jeremy smiled faintly as he realized that Johnathan instinctively moved it to the side, preventing any drips on the paper. Long time writer's habit for the time period. "My sons, for example." Giuseppe's eyes narrowed, and Johnathan quickly looked away.

"Innocent victims of Willow Creek, Mr. Salvatore?" Jeremy was perfectly aware that baiting Mr. Salvatore was not a good idea. But the numb sensation seemed to be creeping further and further out. He had to do something. "Instead of shameful vampire sympathizers?"

"I don't like your tone." Giuseppe drained the second glass and slammed it down on the table.

Jeremy leapt to his feet. "And I don't like you. Had you kept a better leash on your boys _this_ wouldn't have happened. You kept one of those things under your roof." Jeremy snorted, and Johnathan laid a warning hand on his shoulder. Jeremy jerked away, scowling. "Had you spent less time beating your sons and more time actually paying attention, perhaps you would have noticed something."

"Get out. I want you out of my house." Giuseppe was red-faced, and Johnathan, sensing that this was something that he did _not_ want to be in the middle of, grabbed the book. He left the pen on the desk and escaped quickly, ducking his head down.

He stopped only long enough to touch Jeremy's arm. "You can stay with me," he murmured, and then he was gone.

Giuseppe crossed the room, and Jeremy couldn't back down. He needed something, needed to feel _something_. He was as dead inside as Damon, only, his ring wasn't helping with this. Carefully, he raised his chin. He was a good two or three inches taller than Giuseppe.

"I was leaving anyway. Wasn't comfortable staying with a murderer anyway."

Jeremy was ancticipating the first punch. Enough scrapping with Tyler had given him basic fighting skills, and while he would probably never be a true _fighter_, he could hold his own. The second one though, the one to his stomach, that one caught him off guard, and he doubled over, coughing and trying to catch his breath. Giuseppe couldn't seem to stop though, because then he was kicking and shouting and Jeremy was _pretty_ sure that he heard glass breaking.

The pain exploding over his nerves was enough to let him know that he was alive. It scorched every last trace of the numbness out of his body, and then suddenly, Giuseppe was gone. Jeremy rolled over, trying to focus through blurry vision. He caught the faintest impression of Stefan, and, strangely enough, the only thing that Jeremy could think was, _so glad I'm not bleeding_.


	9. Dying

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Mature.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Violence, blood, character death.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 3019 words.  
**Author's Notes**: One more chapter! I promise.

**[[ … Chapter Nine: Dying … ]]**

"Ste-Stefan!" Jeremy coughed, forcing himself to stand. He clutched at the edge of the nearest table, and he blinked to clear his vision. Stefan looked up, concern in his face as he left Giuseppe on the floor across the room.

"Are you all right, Jeremy?" His voice was low, and Jeremy's eyes narrowed as he looked Stefan over. He was unusually pale, and there was a strain in his face that Jeremy didn't remember seeing before. He must not have completed the transformation yet.

Jeremy managed a faint smile. "My fault," he muttered, and he looked back to Giuseppe. The old man was leaning against his desk, staring, wide-eyed, at Stefan.

"You're dead," he whispered.

Stefan looked up from Jeremy, his eyes focusing at the sound of someone else speaking. In that moment, Jeremy realized that he was seeing a raw vampire, one freshly born with their instincts completely intact. Stefan had lost most of his societal trappings, and as he crossed the room, there was something strangely feral in his movements. He made Jeremy think of a stalking cat, and when he leaned over his father, licking his lips, Jeremy's breath caught in his throat.

"Not yet. I will be." But no matter _what_ Stefan said, he was staring at Giuseppe's neck, entranced. Jeremy wondered if he was listening to the blood rushing through his father's veins, and purposely, he deepened his own breathing, trying to lower his pulse. Something told him that Stefan would be attracted by the beating of his heart.

"Where is Damon, Stefan?" Jeremy pitched his voice low, and Stefan didn't look away from Giuseppe, although his head tilted just a little to one side.

His voice sounded detached, almost bored, when he answered, "Damon's safe. We're both just waiting now."

_Waiting to die._ Jeremy shivered. It was something he understood. "What did you come here for?" He was genuinely curious, and he figured that the longer he kept Stefan talking, the easier it would be to get him out of the house. He couldn't quite remember, but he was pretty sure that Stefan killed Giuseppe. Jeremy wasn't certain he could stand any more death, given that his clothes were still slightly damp with Salvatore blood.

Stefan lifted his eyes, blinking slowly as he glanced back over at Jeremy. He frowned, his brow furrowed; it was like he couldn't remember. "I... I came to say goodbye to father. Someone shot me, and..." He stopped, held out a hand, and looked at it carefully, watched it tremble. "I just wanted to..." He looked up at Jeremy. "I didn't want to disappoint him any more."

"You've never been anything _but_ a disappointment." Giuseppe took the moment to step away from Stefan, his hands shaking as he reached behind him toward the mantle. "That's why I shot you."

"Giuseppe, hush." Jeremy drew another deep breath, and he held out a hand to Stefan. "Ignore him, Stefan. You've done what you can. We need to go back and see Damon."

"You shot your sons?" Stefan hesitated, looking between both Jeremy and Giuseppe, and he slowly reached out to brush his fingers against Jeremy's. "Even in our death, he only feels shame," he murmured, and Jeremy felt his heart twisting in his chest once more. This night would never end, it seemed, and every time he thought he had gotten himself under control, something even more tragic managed to happen. He twisted his fingers around Stefan's, stepped a little closer to him.

"You don't need his approval," Jeremy replied quietly. He glanced at Giuseppe, saw him reaching for a cane propped up against the wall, and scowled. "Giuseppe, don't—"

But it was too late. There was a cracking sound as Giuseppe snapped the cane over his knee, and he charged Stefan, improvised stake in hand. Stefan held up his hands, shouting for Giuseppe to stop, and then, in a flash of movement that Jeremy knew he'd never be able to decipher, Giuseppe cried out. There was a terrible crunch, and then Giuseppe was across the room, facing the wall, and even Jeremy could smell the blood.

Giuseppe rolled over, and the stake was in his chest, below his heart but still fatal. Jeremy's mouth went dry as Stefan rushed over, pulled the stake out. Stefan was begging his father to let him help, even as Giuseppe was screaming for Stefan to leave him.

And for Jeremy, time seemed to slow the instant that Stefan saw the blood on the end of the stake. Stefan trailed his fingers over it, smeared the blood between his forefinger and thumb, and slowly, _slowly_, he brought one fingertip to his mouth. His eyes closed the moment it touched his tongue, and Jeremy blushed, biting his bottom lip. Stefan trailed his tongue down the entire length of his finger, and Jeremy shivered.

There was something strangely intimate about seeing it, about watching Stefan's reaction to his first taste of human blood as a vampire. He wore such an expression of sheer ecstasy that Jeremy was uncomfortable looking at him, and he averted his eyes to watch Giuseppe's growing horror. Stefan pushed the old man's hand away from the open wound, and Giuseppe's breath quickened, which only made the blood pump out faster.

Stefan's eyes darkened, and then he grabbed at his mouth. For a moment, Jeremy didn't know what was happening, then Stefan tilted his head back, tears in his eyes, and Jeremy caught a glimpse of the fangs. Just as suddenly, the pain seemed to fade, and Stefan looked back at his father.

Jeremy understood, in that moment, what Damon and Anna had each once tried to explain to him. Vampires _could_ turn off their humanity, like a switch, and it must have been easier to deal with what they'd done. Stefan was a completely different person when he bent over his father, and Jeremy drew a deep breath, trying not to let himself watch. The noises— slurping and biting and these low, territorial growls— were bad enough. He closed his eyes.

When the sounds finally stopped, Jeremy's eyes eased open, and he swallowed at the sight of Stefan right in front of him. Stefan was breathing harshly, leaning forward and _scenting_ Jeremy's throat, and Jeremy quickly did what he could to keep himself perfectly still under the scrutiny. Stefan drew back after a minute, a small smile quirking his lips. It wasn't the same Stefan— wasn't _Elena's_ Stefan— that stared at him.

"Stefan," Jeremy spoke lowly, tried to keep his voice even, "we need to get back to Damon."

Stefan's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer to Jeremy. Jeremy didn't let himself move, although he could rapidly feeling his courage draining away. It wouldn't do him any good to die _here_, in the Salvatore household, when Emily wouldn't be there to send him home.

"Damon is dying, Stefan."

The black in Stefan's eyes receded at that, although he still didn't look... normal. Jeremy wondered if flipping off their humanity like that was a defensive mechanism, a way of coping with the horror that their new existence seemed to inevitably bring. Stefan would have been truly anguished over his father's death, and when he finally got control of himself, he _would_ be. But that might not be for years. Jeremy swallowed, and he held out a hand.

"Let's go to Damon."

Stefan nodded, and he took Jeremy's hand before they left the house. Jeremy let Stefan lead, and as they walked through the trees, Jeremy did his best to cheer up. He hadn't screwed things over too badly, after all. Damon and Stefan were still both vampires, Giuseppe was still dead, and Katherine—

Well, he didn't know what had happened to her. Perhaps she'd gotten away, perhaps not.

Jeremy stumbled into the clearing, lacking Stefan's ability to actually _see_ so well in the dark. Stefan didn't let go of him though, just kept him on his feet and pulled him over to the water's edge. When his eyes had finally adjusted to the moonlight sweeping across the lake's surface, Jeremy recognized Damon. It was strange, and he actually had to reassure himself that it _was_ Damon.

"Brother."

Damon twisted around at Stefan's voice, and his eyes narrowed. He looked pale, even paler than Stefan had, and sickly. He was _sweating_, even in the cool air.

"What have you done, Stefan?" His voice wavered, and a fresh pain shot through Jeremy's chest. He'd never heard Damon sound so vulnerable, so uncertain. He started toward him, only to feel Stefan's grip on his arm tighten. Immediately, he went still; he didn't want to provoke Stefan into anything.

Stefan smiled, and Jeremy forced himself to focus on Damon's face, to look away from the creature wearing Stefan's face. "I brought you a gift, Damon. The ... the shaking, the pain? It's there to tell you that you need to feed."

"We agreed! This is meaningless, Stefan. Without..." Damon stopped himself, and he sighed. "You swore that you weren't going to."

"I went to see Father." Stefan held up his hand at Damon's frown, sighing slightly. "I know. There..." He hesitated, and Jeremy nodded.

"There was an accident, Damon," Jeremy said, and he did his level best to look supportive. Damon's eyes narrowed, and he sucked in a breath as he looked Jeremy over. "Not me. Giuseppe. He's dead."

"There was blood everywhere. And—"

"No; no, Stefan—"

"I brought you what you're needing, Damon." Stefan glanced down at Jeremy, leaning over enough to breathe in just by Jeremy's throat. Jeremy swallowed, and he bit his bottom lip. "You will feel better. You'll be able to think again. I can! I can think, I can _see_, Damon. Like nothing—"

Damon was sighing— _no, no, Stefan_— shaking his head, but he stopped when Jeremy shook his as well. "It's all right, Damon," Jeremy murmured, shooting a pointed look toward Stefan's grip on his arm.

Damon's back straightened, and he held out a hand. Jeremy breathed a small gasp of relief when Stefan pushed him toward Damon, and quickly, he folded up to sit beside Damon. He reached down and took off his shoes, letting his toes dip in the water. The coolness seeped into him, seemed to steady him.

He glanced over at Stefan, who looked content for now, although _that_ was more likely to change the longer that Jeremy continued to breathe. Damon's hands lifted, and he pushed one of them into Jeremy's hair. His fingers rubbed a small lock between them, and he sighed a little more loudly. "You weren't supposed to be here," he said quietly.

Jeremy smiled a little, wondering if perhaps Damon _knew_, instinctively. Then he leaned forward into the touch, closing his eyes. "I brought you here, Damon." He knew that it wasn't what Damon meant, that Damon hadn't wanted Jeremy to see him like _this_, but he didn't care. He opened his eyes and glanced up. "I couldn't leave you."

"Should have," Damon replied, and for a moment, Jeremy wondered if Damon would kiss him again. Then Damon leaned back. "Doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon." He dipped his feet into the water, and Jeremy inched a little closer to him.

"Do you have to?" He bit his bottom lip, and he quickly looked out across the lake when Damon's head snapped toward him. "I mean, what if there was something worth being here for later?"

"What are you talking about?" When Jeremy didn't look back at him, Damon reached out and put his hands on Jeremy's shoulders. "Jeremy."

Jeremy couldn't ignore that tone, and he looked back at Damon. He gently dislodged Damon's hands. "There are things going on here. Things that you don't know about, Damon. There's a future planned—"

He gasped as he ended up on his back, staring up at Damon. He shivered at the weight of Damon straddling him, but he didn't struggle. He knew better than that.

"Katherine's dead, Jeremy. Any 'planned' future—"

"Planned was the wrong word," Jeremy said quickly, placatingly. He offered a faint smile. "But there are things in motion a lot bigger than you and a lot bigger than me and a hell of a lot bigger than Katherine."

Damon leaned down over him, and Jeremy knew his heart raced when he could feel Damon breathing, could feel Damon's nose so lightly touching his skin. A noise might have escaped him, but he couldn't be sure. He did know that Damon's hands worked their way up until they were buried back into Jeremy's hair. His eyes closed.

"How do you know what you know, Jeremy?" Damon's voice was low, right over his ear, and Jeremy shivered, his eyes squeezing a little more tightly closed. Damon's body was beginning to respond to the proximity, Jeremy could _feel_ it. "You kept Katherine nervous, and I had to take _this_," Damon pulled back and held up the bracelet so that Jeremy could see it, "off. It burned."

"It's Vervain," Jeremy whispered, and Damon's eyes narrowed. Jeremy licked his bottom lip, still struggling to breathe, to stay as calm as he could. "It was to protect you."

"Not lucky at all, was it?" Damon leaned back down, the bracelet hitting the first just beside Jeremy's ear. "You _knew_. You're a liar, Jeremy." Then Damon's touch was gone, and Jeremy shivered at the cool air against his skin. Damon was looking back over the water, breathing more heavily than he should have been. Jeremy twisted around, tried and failed to locate Stefan.

He sat up very slowly, carefully, and he touched Damon's arm. When Damon didn't snarl at him, Jeremy grew bolder; he leaned against Damon just a little, reaching up to brush Damon's hair back from his face. Jeremy frowned at the heat he felt in Damon's forehead, at the sweat still coating Damon's body. After just a minute, he took off his jacket, bloodstains and all, and draped it over Damon's bare shoulders.

"Warming a corpse." Damon's voice was slurred, and Jeremy smiled faintly, sadly. All of the pieces had finally fallen into place, and he _knew_ what he had to do. He looked up just long enough to make certain that Emily was still in the small house, and then he crouched down in front of Damon.

"You're going to hate me, Damon," Jeremy murmured, and he slid his palm across Damon's cheek. There was heat in the backs of his eyes— only once had he cried more than that night— but he kept the smile in place. He reached into the knife sheath on his back. He eased the knife out slowly, and Damon simply watched him, so listless that it scared Jeremy where nothing else ever had.

He bit his bottom lip briefly, bracing himself, and he lifted his eyes up to look at Damon as he laid the knife across his palm. "I've done this before, you know," he finally said, conversationally. He didn't admit that it was for a different vampire, under very different circumstances. "Although, this is easily the most selfish thing that I have ever done." He wrapped his hand around the blade and jerked it back, hissing as it sliced his palm open.

Damon's eyes widened, and he started shaking his head. But there was no where to go, and even with his extra strength, he'd waited too long. He was weak, barely holding on at all. Jeremy held out his hand, not pressuring any more than the scent alone would.

"I don't want you to die here, Damon," Jeremy whispered. "I need you to be here."

The scent of blood had brought Stefan back, and there was a low growl from Damon as he noticed his brother. Stefan didn't approach, but apparently, only his presence was enough to push Damon over the line. He took Jeremy's hand in his own, drew it up to his lips, and, keeping his eyes trained on Jeremy, _licked_.

Jeremy shivered, his lips parting, and slowly, as the Damon lapped the blood pooled in Jeremy's palm, the grip on his hand tightened. Damon snarled, and Jeremy cried out at the feel of fangs tearing into his skin, and when Damon looked at him again, his eyes were completely black. _His_ Damon was gone. That made two of them that he had managed to lose.

He watched for as long as he could, trying to assure himself that Damon looked better, that there was color returning to his skin. The sweat dripped into the ragged wound on Jeremy's hand, and vaguely, Jeremy was aware of the slight stinging that accompanied it. He couldn't feel the actual cut though, and he was grateful. He dragged a deep breath into his lungs, and he reached out, touching the side of Damon's face lightly.

"I left," he swallowed back a soft cry when Damon's teeth sank deeper into his hand, "a letter—"

Then he couldn't focus, couldn't think beyond some small part of him that was wishing he'd cut his wrist instead. He was going to die from a wound in his _hand_. How lame was that? He might have laughed, but he wasn't sure. He heard Damon and Stefan both growling, Damon gathering Jeremy as close to him as he could, and then there was Emily, crying about something.

Jeremy wanted to tell her to go ahead, to cast the spell as soon as he died. There was no need to make Damon or Stefan one kill him a second time. But he couldn't lift his head, couldn't put enough air into his lungs to make the words. He was dizzy, his head swimming, and he thought for a moment that he might be sick.

Something velvety and black began to wrap around him, and he realized that he was dying. Dying slowly enough this time that he could really feel it. His body was shutting down, one part at a time, like the lights across an open room. He couldn't feel anything but cold. Cold and Damon's tongue against his skin.

And then he felt nothing at all.


	10. Living

**Title**: Wings of a Butterfly  
**Author**: Traxits  
**Fandom**: The Vampire Diaries (TV series).  
**Pairing**: Damon Salvatore/Jeremy Gilbert.  
**Chapter Rating**: Mature.  
**Chapter Content Notes**: Kissing, mild references to violence, sexual content.  
**Chapter Word Count**: 3910 words.  
**Author's Notes**: Last chapter! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this piece. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**[[ … Chapter Ten: Living … ]]**

The shrieking of the alarm clock— punctuated by an equally shrill, "Jeremy, get up!" from the door— made Jeremy groan as he reached out and slammed his hand on the snooze button. He lay there for a moment, blinking slowly against the bright morning sun, rubbing his face into the pillow.

"Jeremy, so help me, if I'm late because of _you_—"

"I'm up! Christ, Elena." He sighed, pushed himself up, and at the sharp pain in his shoulder, went completely still. His eyes snapped open, and he slid the pads of his fingers over the ragged scar on his shoulder. For a moment, he couldn't remember anything, could remember why his hair was so long or why he had so many injuries over his body— the burn on his shoulder and the deep wound over the palm of his hand and the _aching _bruises over his stomach.

Then everything flooded back into his head. The trenches, the months in the Salvatore house, the horrific round up, Giuseppe kicking him. The _kiss_. He reached up and touched his lips with shaking fingertips, a faint grin over his face before he started laughing. When his alarm shrieked again, he clicked it off, and then he glanced down at the still bloody clothes that he was wearing. Thankfully, they were dry and nothing had stained his bed. Bloodstains wouldn't have been fun to explain.

He peeled them off— rule one of survival, he thought vaguely, was to look like you belonged— grabbed something clean, and tapped on the bathroom door. No answer from Elena, so he hurried in, locked her door to the bathroom, and showered as quickly as he could. His momentary elation at being home faded very quickly, washing down the drain with the blood— Damon's blood, Stefan's blood. He stared at his hands for several minutes, at the pink scar that seemed to slowly be growing whiter, and he didn't move until he heard Elena rapping on the door.

He shut off the water and stepped out, drying and dressing as quickly as he could. He unlocked Elena's door, then started brushing his teeth, ignoring the look Elena gave him as she walked in. Her eyes flicked up to his hair, and for a moment, she was perfectly quiet. Then, she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush and asked, "When did your hair get so long, Jer?"

Jeremy froze, carefully taking the moment to rinse his mouth and his toothbrush before he looked back at her. He deliberately gave her the dirtiest look he could manage, snorting and replying, "Finally noticed, did you?" He rolled his eyes, stalked out of the bathroom, and grabbed his backpack. He _seriously_ hoped he was still in the emo phase he'd been in when Stefan had first arrived. He took the stairs two at a time, stopping only when he saw who was standing at the door, waiting for him.

"Hey, champ." The man's smile could have been a stranger's, it was so foreign to Jeremy. "Ready to go?"

Jeremy nodded slowly, his knuckles gripping his pack so tightly that they were white. He was shaking, but as Elena came down the steps behind him, he struggled to get himself under control. They were quiet on the ride to school, Jeremy unable to take his eyes off of the back of his father's head. He finally pulled his cellphone out, tapping away until he located the calendar. He felt his heart skip a beat. 2009.

Nothing had happened yet. Stefan wasn't in Mystic Falls, _Damon _probably hadn't returned yet either. He licked his bottom lip, and he practically ran into the school the moment he could get away.

He ditched the bag in his locker— same one he'd had the first time he'd done this— and he just kept walking right out of the school, not caring that he was cutting what seemed to be the first day of classes. Jeremy paced just outside of the school, considering his options, and then he broke into a jog. He needed to see it. Needed to _be_ in the house that he knew Damon had lived in.

It was a long road, and by the time Jeremy reached the boarding house, he felt like he was going to be sick. He hesitated before he knocked, and when the door opened, words completely failed him.

"Jeremy Gilbert?" Zach Salvatore tilted his head, looking out past him, as though expecting to see a car somewhere. It wasn't an unreasonable thought, given how far out the house was. "Is everything okay?"

Jeremy opened and closed his mouth a few times, before he finally managed, "May I come in?"

Zach frowned a little but stepped to the side. It wasn't until Jeremy had actually entered the house that he realized Zach hadn't _invited_ him. He glanced up, wondering how much Zach actually knew. Jeremy hadn't known him very well before he'd skipped town.

"What is it, Jeremy?"

"Is Damon here?" Jeremy knew he shouldn't outright ask. He knew that there had to be a better way to go around the subject, but for the life of him, he couldn't think straight. He had no idea what had happened the past 145 years; somehow, things had changed so much that he had directly impacted the car accident that had killed both of his parents. He needed to know that Damon was safe, that he wasn't affected for the worse by Jeremy's foolish meddling.

Zach stiffened at the question, pushing himself off of the wall he'd leaned against. "Why are you asking about Damon?"

Jeremy's breath caught in his throat; Zach hadn't denied it. Quickly, he turned and ran up the stairs, ignoring Zach's exclamation. He knew the way to Damon's room, knew it without having to be told. The door was unlocked, and he fell into the room, something heated already in the backs of his eyes. It _smelled_ like Damon. Hearing Zach rushing down the hall after him, he shut and locked the door. There would be hell to pay, he was certain, but he _needed_ this.

He sank down onto the bed, grabbed a pillow, and held it up to his nose. He breathed in as deeply as he could, wanting to hold the smell inside of him. He could hear Zach pounding on the door, shouting for him to come out of there— no doubt for fear of his life. Damon had been strangely possessive of his room, no matter when Jeremy had known him. He looked up, and a familiar book sitting on the desk caught his attention.

Jeremy left the pillow on the bed, his hand shaking as he picked it up. He dragged his fingertips down over the cracked binding, and just before he could open the book, he heard the window open. Someone leaned over behind him and snatched the book from his hands.

"It's rude to go through someone else's things."

Jeremy's eyes closed for a heartbeat— two— and then he turned around, dragging in a deep breath. He met Damon's blue eyes, and it all seemed strangely familiar. The anger and pain that he'd known in _his_ Damon, from before, filled this one as well, and Jeremy licked his bottom lip again.

"Damon..."

"What exactly are you looking for?" Damon was aggressive, ignoring any rules about personal space, and he crowded Jeremy against the desk, his hands lightly putting the book back down.

"You kept my sketchbook." Jeremy saw something flash in Damon's eyes. "Did you—"

Damon shook his head slowly, and Jeremy felt his stomach sinking. "You're not him. You're not. I _checked_." Damon slammed his hands back down on the desk, and Jeremy's pulse jumped. He wouldn't let himself look away though. "How did you find out about him?" Damon's pupils narrowed to pinpricks, and Jeremy's heart stopped. He wasn't wearing Vervain.

Quickly, he looked away, and he reached up to pull his shirt down just enough for Damon to see his shoulder. Damon went perfectly still, his hands twitched, and there was a ripping sound as he tore Jeremy's shirt open. His fingers traced just around the edges of the scar.

"I killed him," he murmured, and Jeremy shook his head slowly.

"You killed _me_," he whispered, because there wasn't any kind way to put it. Damon took his hand, turned it palm up and traced the white scar there. Jeremy shivered under the touch, and Damon stepped closer to him. After just a moment, Damon brought the hand up to his lips, and Jeremy couldn't stop the low noise that escaped him at the feel of Damon's tongue on his palm. "Damon..."

Damon didn't stop though, just kept licking until his tongue found Jeremy's wrist. He stopped, scraped his teeth over the skin there, and finally said, "I found the letter."

Jeremy shivered. "That was the plan. Well, kind of. I didn't mean for _you_ to kill me; that part just sort of happened." He moved then, reaching up to put his hands on either side of Damon's face, to make them both own up and meet eyes. Damon wasn't having any of it though, because he immediately moved them, pushing Jeremy to lay flat on the bed and straddling his hips. Jeremy bit his lip and closed his eyes when he felt Damon's fingers running over his chest.

"Just sort of happened?" Damon leaned down until his mouth was just beside Jeremy's ear. "One hundred," a tap of his fingers punctuated each syllable of the number, "and forty-five years. You've been gone for one _hundred_ and _forty-five_ years, Jeremy. And you just show up." Damon's hands moved until they were flat against the bed. "Like nothing's happened. You look _exactly_ the same."

Damon lowered himself until he was flush against Jeremy, his lips ghosting just over Jeremy's throat. "You still smell like blood," he murmured, and his nose brushed over Jeremy's hair. Jeremy could _hear_ him breathing in. "I can smell the lake on you."

Jeremy could hear the blanket under him squeaking, ripping as Damon's hands clenched fistfuls of it. He reached up, threaded his fingers through Damon's hair, and whispered, "It was yesterday for me. I woke up this morning here." He didn't add that he had showered, that he was pretty sure Damon was imagining it. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Damon's back, buried his face into Damon's shoulder. He could feel tears in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to keep them at bay. "I had to _leave_ you like that—"

Damon pulled back from him, and then his hands were on Jeremy's face, his thumbs brushing just under Jeremy's eyes. He pulled Jeremy up just enough to kiss him; it was slow, deliberate, and not at all what Jeremy wanted. He dug his fingers into Damon's back, made a noise and tried to deepen the kiss, to coax Damon into kissing him with the same hunger that they had shared once before. Damon ignored him, clearly in favor of taking his time.

After one hundred and forty-five years, Jeremy was pretty sure he deserved it; didn't mean that he had to like it.

"Damon..." Jeremy bit Damon's lower lip softly. "Damon, please—"

Damon kissed him once more, cutting off his words, and then he drew back all the way. He sat up, slid his fingers over Jeremy's torso, and stopped whenever he reached the shoulder. Jeremy lay under him, _very_ aware of the weight pressing down over his hips, and simply tried to breathe, to keep himself sane.

"It was true then." Damon's voice was quiet, and he picked very lightly at the scar. Jeremy winced and squirmed as far away from the motion as he could. It wasn't exactly far, given that Damon wasn't budging from where he sat. "Everything in the letter."

Jeremy swallowed before he nodded. "It is. Was. I don't even know. Everything has changed." His hands slid down to touch Damon's thighs, and he looked back at Damon. "I came straight here."

"Skipped school in favor of looking for me?" Damon's eyes snapped back to Jeremy, and he leaned down once more. One of his hands lightly brushed Jeremy's hair back from his face. "I'm flattered. When did you get these?" His hand drifted back down to press on one of the bruises over Jeremy's stomach.

Jeremy sighed faintly. "Giuseppe," he murmured, and Damon's low growl made him reach up, made him touch the side of Damon's face. "Sh," he whispered, and he leaned up just enough to touch a soft kiss to Damon's lips. "He's dead."

"He _was_ hitting you." But Damon was kissing him again, and Jeremy shivered under the feeling, the _desperation_ lacing each time their lips touched. "I," another kiss, "knew it."

"Mm... No." Jeremy silently cursed his inability to let Damon simply accept whatever it was that he wanted to think. He pushed Damon back just enough to look at him, to stop the kisses. "It was only after... after he killed you. That's when he hit me. I provoked it, Damon."

"Who choked you, Jeremy?" Damon's voice was low, but what made Jeremy uncomfortable was the expression he had. He was intent, his eyes focused on _everything_ that Jeremy did. Hesitantly, Jeremy picked at the blanket, unable to stop himself from fidgeting.

When he felt Damon's weight shift, and Jeremy quickly shook his head. "Katherine. It was Katherine." He bit his lip, and he looked up. Damon had gone pale, and he leaned back. His eyes cut to the side, and Jeremy shifted under him. "Damon, it wasn't your fault."

"She told me that she saw you leaving." Damon laughed a little, and then he was across the room, his fingers tracing the cover of the journal.

Jeremy shivered, the sudden temperature difference more than he was ready to handle. When Damon was close to him like that, it was easy to pretend, to forget that everything was different, that this was _real_. Jeremy wasn't ready to face the world just yet. He eased off of the bed and moved to stand beside Damon, looking down at the hand on the book. "That morning? I figured she might have."

Damon didn't say anything else, and Jeremy didn't tell him that Katherine had killed him, had left his body in the woods with his bag just to lend some reality to her story. Instead, he lifted a hand, and he touched Damon's hip. Damon glanced over at him.

"I pushed her too," Jeremy murmured, and he couldn't make himself look up. "It... it was hard." Damon's hand wrapped around his, pulled it up closer to him, and Jeremy's eyes closed at the feel of Damon's breath over the backs of his fingers. "I snapped a few times; did things I shouldn't have."

"Were you scared?"

There was the slightest hint of tongue over his fingers, and Jeremy opened his eyes to look at Damon. "Yeah," he whispered, and he focused on watching that tongue sliding over his hand. "And when you kissed me—"

Jeremy stopped himself, uncertain of what to say. In all reality, Damon's kissing him had only made everything worse, his reaction— understandable as it was— had hurt. Damon's eyes lifted from their hands, and Jeremy quickly forced a smile onto his face. Immediately, Damon leaned forward, dropping Jeremy's hand in favor of pushing his fingers into Jeremy's hair.

"Stop it," Damon muttered, and Jeremy felt his smile slip. "I _know_ that smile is fake." His hand twisted around a few pieces of Jeremy's hair, and he pulled. Jeremy gasped, finding himself pulled down until he was a few inches shorter than Damon. "You used to give me that smile a lot," Damon said quietly, his other hand trailing his thumb over Jeremy's bottom lip.

"You didn't know it was forced back then," Jeremy replied, trying to figure out if Damon was genuinely angry with him or not. He couldn't tell, and that realization scared him. This Damon was more unstable than the Damon he'd left in 1864; he was more like the Damon Jeremy had known before the entire trip. Jeremy reached up, and the instant his hand touched Damon's face, Damon let him go and crossed the room in a blur.

Jeremy picked up the sketchbook then, taking advantage of the moment, and he cracked it open curiously. He remembered all of his sketches, of course, but as he turned to the last one he'd done, he smiled faintly. Then he flipped to the next page and his heart skipped a beat.

The rest of the book was filled with sketches of _him_, of Jeremy, and Jeremy glanced up at Damon. Damon's arms were folded over his chest, he was looking out the window, but Jeremy saw the way his eyes cut to the side as Jeremy thumbed through the book. Most of the sketches were a little rough, like Damon had been trying to capture memories, and Jeremy could sympathize.

It was sometimes a lot harder than it should have been to remember the little details, because it was the _little_ details that make the drawings a good replacement for memories. There were sketches of Jeremy with the kepi on, sketches of him laughing, him struggling to stay on the horse. He laughed slightly, and he blinked back the tears as he turned to the last handful of pages. His _letter_.

"I thought you were dead," Damon finally said, but he didn't move. Jeremy blinked faster, reached up to wipe his eyes, and prayed that Damon would stay put. "I mean, Emily told me and you left the letter but... Really?" Damon turned just as Jeremy lowered his arm, and Jeremy pointedly looked at the sketchbook. Some of the words were smudged, presumably from someone tracing their fingertips over them. "It was a little difficult to believe."

"I can imagine." Jeremy was proud that his voice didn't waver, didn't crack. "It was hard to believe when it was happening."

"This is right then? This is where you're supposed to be?"

Jeremy lowered the sketchbook, sighing. "Yeah, Damon. It's where I'm supposed to be." He shivered as Damon came back to him, as Damon turned him around and placed his hands on Jeremy's face. Jeremy closed his eyes, and Damon licked away the tear that escaped him.

"Good," Damon said lowly, and then he was kissing Jeremy again. Jeremy's hands clutched at handfuls of Damon's shirt, unable to let go. He didn't _want_ to let go, didn't want this to end. "I don't think I'd let you die again," Damon whispered against his lips, and he didn't wait for Jeremy's answer. Instead, he simply pulled Jeremy closer to him, pushed him back down against the bed, and kissed him, tasting him and _drinking_ him in like he'd never done before.

Jeremy pushed his hands into Damon's hair, and he kissed back, all enthusiasm and while he might not have felt as sexy as Damon did against him, he was pretty damned sure that Damon didn't care. Damon was pushing down against him, and Jeremy was rubbing against him, trying to pull him closer. A knee slid in between Jeremy's legs, and after just a moment, Jeremy pressed against it. Damon made a low noise in the back of his throat, and his hand slid down to squeeze in between them—

And the door flew open with a shattering _crack_ that made Jeremy gasp for breath. Damon was off of him before the sound had even stopped ringing, snarling at Stefan who held up his hands instinctively.

"Zach was worried," he said quickly, and his eyes locked onto Jeremy. His mouth set into that line, the one that Jeremy knew meant a scolding was about to follow. It was the same line he'd worn when he was checking to see if Jeremy was still human after his attempt to turn himself. Jeremy groaned, rolled over, and grabbed Damon's pillow, pulling it down over his head, trying to block out the quiet, "Damon, you _promised_—"

"It's him, Stefan." Damon's voice was low, and Jeremy sat up just a little at the _tone_ he had. He glanced between them before he dropped the pillow and held out a hand.

"Stefan."

Stefan hesitated before he reached for Jeremy's hand, only to be intercepted by Damon. Damon's hand pushed Jeremy back down onto the bed away from Stefan.

"Jeremy, you shouldn't be here—"

Jeremy wordlessly held up his palm, and it wasn't until Stefan's eyes cut in between the scar there and the scar on his shoulder that he even realized that his shirt had long since fallen to the floor. Damon had torn it clean off of his body, and Jeremy hadn't _noticed_. He shivered, pulling the pillow back into his lap. Damon must have sensed something, because he stayed in between Stefan and Jeremy, his body tense and ready for a fight.

"But... Damon killed you."

Damon snarled and Jeremy reached out, catching his wrist and holding onto it as tightly as he could. He was lucky, because Damon didn't seriously attempt to shake him off. Instead, Damon simply moved over and pulled Jeremy against him, his hand tangling in Jeremy's hair.

"He had to. It was the only way I could get back." Jeremy's eyes closed slightly at the feel of Damon's nails lightly scratching over his scalp.

Stefan's eyes widened. "It... It was true? What Emily said?"

"I'm taking him home," Damon said abruptly, not even caring that Stefan was sputtering and trying to ask something else. "For him, it was last night." He cast Stefan a dark look, and he gathered Jeremy into his arms, not waiting to hear if Jeremy even _wanted_ to go home. Jeremy closed his eyes against the blurring scenery, and then they were in Damon's car. He didn't start it though.

Instead, he simply leaned back, his head against the headrest. Jeremy looked over at him, and after a minute of silence, he asked, "Are you taking me home?"

"I should." Damon tapped a finger on the wheel of the car, and finally, he muttered something about fate and reached into his pocket. He withdrew the bracelet— Jeremy's bracelet— and leaned over to clip it onto Jeremy's wrist. He didn't ask for permission, but as he drew back, Jeremy wrapped his fingers around Damon's wrist and pulled it back over to him. He rolled the small matching bracelet up Damon's arm.

"When did you find that?"

Damon smiled slightly, and he looked out the car window. "In the twenties. It was the first time I thought that there might be some truth to your letter. No Vervain in mine." He pulled his arm out of Jeremy's grip and turned the key in the ignition. "Your dad will be wondering why you're not at school. I'm sure they've called him by now."

"Yeah."

"... You're not eighteen," Damon finally said, and Jeremy couldn't help but laugh.

"You've been waiting to say that, haven't you?" He tapped a finger on car door before he shook his head. "No. I'm fifteen."

"Jailbait."

There was something funny about hearing such a modern word coming out of Damon's mouth, and Jeremy's grin widened. "Yeah," he said after a minute. "I guess I am. ... Damon, is this all real? Is it really over?"

Damon snorted. "Nothing's over, Jeremy. You're fifteen. This is just beginning."

* * *

"_Heaven ablaze in our eyes.  
__We stand still in time.  
__The blood on our hands is the wine  
__that we offer in sacrifice._

_Come on and show them your love.  
__Rip out the wings of a butterfly.  
__For your soul, my love.  
__Rip out the wings of a butterfly.  
__For your soul._"

― _"Wings of a Butterfly," by HIM._

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Vampire Diaries, any of the characters, or "Wings of a Butterfly," by HIM.

**Final Notes**: If you enjoyed this story, there is a direct sequel titled "Footsteps of a Traveler." You can find it on my profile. ^^


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